My dad and my grandpa died about 90 minutes apart; dad first. We didn’t find out about grandpa until the next morning.

My extended relative threw a birthday party for her one year old with around 40 people, including my grandparents. This was before vaccines and my grandparents were in their 80s. My dad did not attend this party, but the virus did. The next week, another extended relative held a Thanksgiving gathering. Again, there were too many people in too small of space. My grandparents were not well enough to travel to this gathering, possibly due to the virus, but another extended relative picked them up. Again, my dad did not attend.

My dad lived the closest to his parents and, along with my stepmom, helped them out with many things. It is a near certainty that he contracted the virus from them, his parents. Grandma’s hospital stay was short, but grandpa’s was nearly a month until it ended… he ended. Dad’s was not quite as long, he even got to come home for a brief bit before going back in and succumbing. His death was likely due to a mixture of remdesivir damaging his liver and his hope being crushed by the collapse in his condition. The drugs were our hope and it was the hope that killed.

Literally, I lost two family members that day, two of my best. In reality, I lost almost an entire side of my extended family and I barely know anyone on my deceased mom’s side. There is so much blame to go around, so many wrongs. Selfishness, mainly, and taking advantage by family members of a father and grandfather who had dementia. Grandpa was never likely to make it to the other side of the pandemic, with his age and medical history. To me, that meant we should do more than CDC guidelines, not less because he and they were impatient. I hope those parties were to die for.

My kids have only very young memories, stories, and thankfully pictures, of their grandpa. Outside of our house, he was one of the most important people in our lives.

Four months to the day, the state had a ribbon cutting for Ohio’s pandemic memorial. It is at the state park nearest to where they lived and a place where we spread some of my mom’s ashes as she held it almost sacred. I cannot see myself ever going back to that place now; those memories are tarnished.

I cannot find words awful enough to describe my grief. I doubt I ever will. I will not find the words, nor will my grief end. I feel cheated, though so many others have even worse stories. Maybe writing this out here will bring a modicum of catharsis down the road, but not today.