38 days

By Caroline Guerrero

How can I make sense of an ending that has been eclipsed by a beginning? Where do I put this joy and sorrow, both wrapped in grief, for who I was and who I am? For what I’ve gained and what I’ve lost? I explained it to my therapist like this: On November 1, 2020, at 3:37 am, I gave birth to my first child—a bright-eyed and curious daughter. On December 6, 2020, I turned 30. Three days later, December 9, 2020 at 10:13 pm, my grandpa, the man who raised me as his own daughter, had died.

For approximately 38 days, two of the most important people in my life existed at the same time. My daughter came into this world as I embraced the harmony and self-trust ushered in by entering in my thirties built upon the intense healing and selfadvocacy I had done in the last few years of my twenties. I was so much more than just a new mother when I welcomed Zara into this world. I was finally and resolutely myself. My grandpa left us just as I was saying goodbye to much of my youth and making peace with difficult parts of my past.

I didn’t cry at his funeral at first. I had known my grandpa was dying. And I attempted to temper my grief by preparing myself (as if I could) by reminding myself that we got an extra ten years with him after he almost passed away in 2009. As the oldest daughter of a single Hispanic-Punjabi mother, my duty was to be steadfast for my grandma, my mom, and my younger siblings. Being a “strong woman” in my family meant no tears unless behind closed doors. When I called my grandma after he died,

she admitted to only crying when alone in her bedroom, because she didn’t want to make everyone else sad.

But I did sob at his funeral. Right before the eulogy that I was to give during our small, masked family mass. The grief I attempted to temper poured out relentlessly and I turned into my brother’s shoulder and repeated over and over, “He never met my daughter, he never met Zara.” An incantation of sorts that I hoped would rise him from the dead.

Knowing my grandpa was ill, I had made it a point to travel to see him when I was 23 weeks pregnant. I melted in his arms when we hugged. I wanted him to know how strong I was while being pregnant during a pandemic. He was just about to lose his leg to the diabetes that ravaged his body. The same disease that ultimately stopped his heart.

In that time when both my daughter and grandpa were here, they both were feeble and helpless. My daughter in the first weeks of her life had trouble latching and developed jaundice. My grandpa lay mostly unconscious in a hospital bed succumbing to an infection brought on by his diabetes. Both were heavily isolated. Both were considered high-risk.

The day before my grandpa died, my sister held up her phone to his face. Desperate for his acknowledgement—his approval, really— I hoisted my little month-old baby into full view of the screen like

I turned into my brother’s shoulder and repeated over and over, “He never met my daughter, he never met Zara.” An incantation of sorts that I hoped would rise him from the dead.

a tiny offering. As both laid still with their eyes closed, I said, “Dad, look, it’s Zara! She can’t wait to meet you. It’s your greatgranddaughter. We love you.” But looking back now, what I wish I had said was, “Dad, look, it’s Zara. I want you to hold her. I want you to see my daughter. I need you to see me as I am before you go. We are both so strong. We are going to be ok. Thank you for everything. Please know we love you.”

My grandpa never got to hold my daughter though they both existed on this Earth and in my life for 38 days, 930 hours, 55,836 minutes. There was no transition during that time. The Caroline that my grandpa knew didn’t converge with the only Caroline that Zara has known. Going from the birth of my daughter to the death of my grandpa felt like driving from home to work with no recollection of the drive itself.

My therapist tells me to remember the markers of the drive to stay present during that time. I know that I take the 60 to I-10 West to I-17 until my exit. I like to stay in the inside lanes, because it’s hard for me to get over quickly. I prefer to listen to my “Made For You” Spotify playlists. It only takes me 20 minutes.

I know that both my daughter and I cried hard as I struggled to get her to latch, but that we preserved and soaked up so many moments of love in our first month together. I know that I relished turning 30 and I celebrated with a small lemon Bundt cake. I know that I started to miss my grandpa before he even left, and I can hear the guttural howl my body let out when my mom called to tell me he passed. It was only 38 days.

Caroline & her grandpa