By Jordan Vallone
My 2025 began in a way that no one wants their new year to kick off: I got the flu. I woke up the first Monday of the year with a 103-degree fever, body aches that were almost unmanageable and a headache so intense I could barely keep my eyes open.
The one thing that made me smile that day was a text from my sweet grandma, a nurse, who wrote, “Hang in there. Eat some nice warm soup and toast. Comfort food.”
Grandmas always know best.
In my dreary state, I decided to kick-start my annual reading goal of at least 50 books. I opened up “Sandwich,” by Catherine Newman, a witty tale of a family that has spent nearly every summer on Cape Cod, told from the perspective of its matriarch, Rocky. The book explores love, lost dreams, hope and more, offering a well-rounded glimpse into the many life stages we all experience.
When I read, I highlight lines that leave an impression on me, either by writing them down or using a tool on my Kindle. “Sandwich” was filled with them. I noted several things, but the one I kept thinking about in the days and weeks after I finished reading it was this: “Maybe grief is love imploding. Or maybe it’s love expanding.”
Like everyone, I’ve experienced grief for different things, for different people, but I hadn’t truly encountered its profound weight — the type of grief that makes it hard to breathe.
My grandma died unexpectedly on May 4, at age 85. She took excellent care of herself, and besides a few minor incidents in her later years, she was generally in great shape. All it took was a brief, serious illness that led to sepsis and eventually organ failure. Her last few days were filled with moments I fear I’ll never be able to comprehend.
She was an exceptional woman, as most grandmothers are. She had seven children, 10 grandchildren, and family and friends galore in her neighborhood of Middle Village, Queens. A devout Catholic, she was devoted to her church, its people and myriad ministries.
The last day I saw her was April 19, the day before Easter. It was exceptionally warm — over 80 degrees in Queens — and we had lunch and a long chat about baseball. A tried-and-true Yankees fan, she reminded me that she never rooted against the Mets, unless they were playing the Yankees. That day, she told me her favorite Met was Francisco Lindor — who had hit a walk-off home run the night before, much to her delight. I guess we Yankees fans know a thing or two about good shortstops.
It’s hard to put into words how much those final conversations mean to me. I never could’ve imagined that the next time I saw her would be our last moments together.
As I write this, I feel that overpowering sense of grief. This year didn’t start off the way I wanted it too, and really, it hasn’t gotten much better. There have been good moments, of course, but there have been a lot of sad ones, too.
It’s funny, though: As I think about “Sandwich” — a book I decided to read maybe an hour or so after Grandma sent me well-wishes for the new year — I realize I can feel this way because before grief, there was love.
What I’m feeling is love imploding. I can’t say I’ve enjoyed the experiences I’ve endured this year, but I’m grateful that Grandma loved us so deeply that her absence leaves me with such a profound sense of loss, which is really just a testament to the type of person she was. All of us would be lucky to be loved so deeply, so consistently, by someone like her.
They say time heals all wounds, but I don’t always think that’s fair. The hurt I’ve felt these past few months may fade, but there will always be this void in my heart that only she could fill. I’ll wait forever, I hope, to see her again.
As her love expands in her absence, I hope to carry it with me everywhere — through every book I read, every milestone I reach and every ordinary day in between. If grief is love imploding, then maybe what follows is love reshaping itself, reminding me that she’s still here, in everything I do.
Jordan Vallone is deputy managing editor of Herald Community Newspapers. Comments? Jvallone@liherald.com.
