Disclaimer: What follows in this post contains my thoughts and my recollection of childhood memories. They are 33 years old and may not be the full truth, but they are my truth.
I have written about death and loss before. Grief can reshape us. It can bring love and pain together in unexpected ways.
This reflection feels different. This isn’t just about loss. It’s about understanding what that first loss meant. It’s also about how my relationship with it has changed over time.
Thirty-three years ago, I lost my first grandparent. My grandpa, Garfield Dokken, passed away suddenly. It’s interesting how distinctly I remember that life event. Maybe it’s because it was my first experience with death as a child. Maybe it’s because of other reasons.
The Day I Learned About Death
November 3, 1992
That night is etched in my mind.
I had undergone a selective dorsal rhizotomy a surgery meant to help reduce the tightness in my legs. It was an intense surgery, and I was still sore, tired, and trying to heal.
I remember the phone ringing. My mom was staying with me at the hospital so my mom answered it. My mom was talking on the phone. I don’t recall who she was speaking to. I remember her face when she hung up. She turned to me and told me that my grandpa had passed away.
I don’t remember what I said after she told me.
My parents asked the doctors if I could go home for the funeral, but they strongly advised against it. I was still recovering.
My parents suggested that I write him a note something my dad could tuck into his pocket. So I did.
When you’re young, you don’t really understand death. You don’t grasp what it means when someone won’t walk through the door again or call you on the phone. I didn’t know what it truly meant that he was gone.
“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.
1 Corinthians 13:11
When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.”
Growing into Grief
As I was writing this I thought of the verse from 1 Corinthians. As a child, I grieved as a child. For a long time, I carried his passing in a unique way. I saw it through the eyes of the boy in that hospital bed.
That chapter of my life always felt unfinished, the story incomplete. There was a recording of the funeral service that exists. Still, I don’t believe I have ever sat down to watch the whole thing. I don’t know if I would even want to watch it.
It took decades to realize that I needed to grieve differently, not to forget, but to forgive.
To forgive the child who couldn’t yet understand.
After years of therapy and reflection, I’ve learned to process loss with more compassion especially toward my younger self.
I’m not perfect at it, but I’m getting better everyday.
Writing Allows Grief to Evolve
In, “Passengers on the Journey”, I wrote about how the people we love are like fellow travelers. Some ride with us longer than others, but all leave an imprint on our path. My grandpa was one of my first fellow travelers to step off the bus early in my life. I didn’t understand it then, but he helped me see that love and loss are part of the same journey.
In “Holding Onto Love”, I wrote about how love doesn’t disappear when someone dies. It transforms. It changes shape. I think that’s what I’ve come to understand now, too. My love for my grandpa has transformed. It’s quieter, steadier, woven into who I am rather than something I reach for.
Questions Without Answers
Now, as an adult, I find myself wondering:
What would he think of the person I’ve become?
What would he think of the life I am leading?
What would he think of my hair, my name, my humor?
Growing up, I often heard that question used as a moral compass:
“What would your grandpa think if they saw that report card?”
“What would he say about your behavior?”
It’s something people say to motivate, to guide, or to remind us to be our best. But sometimes, it can have the opposite effect.
Instead of inspiring, it can carry shame. This is especially true when it’s tied to someone we loved deeply and would never want to disappoint.
I don’t believe those words are spoken with bad intentions.
Still, they overlook something important: the people we invoke in those moments aren’t here to speak for themselves.
We can’t know what they would think. We can’t know how they might have grown. We can’t know how their love for us might have changed over time.
Love evolves. People do too. Love remains after loss. It deserves to be carried forward. It should not be used as a measure of guilt or worth.
Closing Reflections
Thirty-three years have passed since that night in the hospital. Yet, in some ways, I’m still that child learning what it means to say goodbye. The difference now is that I can hold both the pain and the gratitude together. I can look back and see how that moment shaped me, not just in loss, but in love.
In Passengers on the Journey, I wrote about the people we love. They travel alongside us for a time. They leave their imprint even after they’ve stepped off the bus. And in Holding Onto Love, I reflected on how love doesn’t fade when someone dies. It changes shape. It becomes part of who we are.
That’s what I feel now. My grandpa is no longer a passenger beside me, but his love remains part of the path beneath my wheels. His laughter, his kindness, his presence—they continue to move with me in quiet, unseen ways.
Grief shows up differently for all of us. Sometimes loud and raw, sometimes quiet and unseen. It doesn’t leave us; it transforms. It teaches us to carry memories with gentleness. It teaches us to live in a way that honors those who came before us.
So on this anniversary, I don’t just remember his passing. I remember his life, his laughter, and the lessons that continue to guide me.
And in that remembering, I find peace.
