Answering "The Call"

reclaiming the beach and grief crashing like waves

I’m personally a firm believer that urgent news, no matter how devastating, should be communicated as quickly as possible. I’ve learned that everyone maintains their own logic whether it involves waiting for others to return from work or preferring to relay tragic words in-person.

Earlier this year, I broke down in tears watching the last episode of Dying for Sex. I was not surprised by the ending; I had listened to Molly Kochan’s podcast voicing her story and everyone knows the obvious finale of terminal cancer. What drew tears after months of numbness was how well the show portrayed the reality of coming to terms with death. It’s terrible, yes, but still filled with humorous moments and pockets of beauty.

But in all honesty, I had not dedicated a proper moment to mourn last year’s tragedy since the initial shock. Life had gone on, for me, while it remained shattered for one of my best friends.

One day while I was back in town, she handed me a white corduroy skirt to try on, thrifted but too large for her. She gestured towards the open door and a full length mirror; I shuddered and almost collapsed. She quickly understood and clarified, “it happened upstairs, he moved upstairs to my old room years ago. I’m living in this room now.”

Had it really been years? Since I last saw him, in that very room?

A decade ago, a trifecta of loss taught me my mother’s protocol for communicating somber news. Starting with a blunt text, “please call as soon as you’re available.” Grief felt different then, my prefrontal cortex was not fully developed and death was the inevitable result after years of suffering.

I was my paternal grandmother’s only granddaughter, her bubbeleh. Despite constant affection, I was always conscious of her mortality. When we’d share a room on vacation, she’d spend the night chanting in Spanish blended with Yiddish, begging her deceased mother to take her with her.

Then, I didn’t know a will to live. Not like now. The only time I could catch a glimpse into my future, it at most involved shopping at a farmers market accompanied by a dog. Once, my parents joked that they pictured me living in an apartment in Los Feliz without any real silverware.

Now, I find comfort in my home, rented for the foreseeable future. Across the country nonetheless. Fully stocked, although my silverware is mismatched.

Still, I’ve simultaneously attempted to heal my relationship with my home state California. Hours after touchdown at LAX, I redeemed my first-time discount at a new dispensary but I quickly became too high on life to rely on my supply. Every day was filled with serendipitous moments from running into a friend to spontaneous plans, celebrity spottings, and otherworldly road trip discoveries.

Suddenly, I couldn’t sleep. On the drive back to LA, I opened my mother’s foreshadowing text followed by The Call.

It’s strange grieving before breathing stops. Minutes after hanging up the phone, I coincidentally drove by Emma Wood State Beach, where my grandfather and I would wake up to sit outside of the RV to count the dolphins gliding across the waves. I knew I was saying goodbye, or beginning the process of saying goodbye. A neighborhood black cat blocked to the entrance of their house that evening.

At only 6 years old, I had assured my family that my father would survive against the slim odds. While they found it endearing that I remained hopeful despite endless weeks on a ventilator, I simply have a tendency for being right.

The morning after Liam Payne died last year, I slept uneasily and woke up paranoid that something more personal was wrong. I spent hours lugging myself out of bed until eventually forcing myself to walk to the park, where I got The Call.

I wondered how, minutes after discovering the worst and most unexpected news, on her way to the airport, my dear friend even had the capacity to call me. Adrenaline can prompt a sense of urgency, I’ve learned.

During the in-between, the purgatory, only one day after my grandfather’s stroke, was my friend’s birthday. The first year without her brother, her birthday only two days after what was once his. Despite my distressed state, I still somehow felt inclined to prepare a baked good and remembered the blessing of pre-made pie crust.

Two days before, when everything was different, I enjoyed the most scrumptious blackberry pie. Despite an otherwise state of nauseousness, I still craved the bits of crispy sugar garnished over the flaky crust and jammy center. And god, weren’t mini pies just so cute.

So, I cut the dough into small circles, placed them into muffin tins. Filled them with a mixture of blackberries, figs, and lemon zest. I sloppily cut the extra dough into lattice. My mother’s garden was overflowing with herbs and she always commented on the lemon verbena, what could you possibly do with lemon verbena? I finally fulfilled my prophecy, after many instances of claiming I would blitz some into a sugar, and topped the mini pies with lemon verbena sugar.

Less than a week before, my grandparents joined us for bagels my first morning back in town. I had heard many stories of their marriage over the years, but my grandfather revealed how their first trip together to Solvang sealed the deal.

Ah, fate. I had always wanted to visit the Danish-style town nestled in the Santa Ynez Valley and finally had a concrete plan to stop there mere days later. This larger west coast trip, intended to celebrate my grandparents’ anniversary, also coincided with the 8 year anniversary with my partner. We planned a brief escape to a rural tiny home to celebrate, between Los Padres Forest and Montaña de Oro State Park.

We stopped in Solvang, a bit hangry yet graciously served promptly, and split thin Danish pancakes along with a plate of meatballs, coleslaw, and mashed potatoes. I discovered that his family also once fell in love with this quirky town, a pocket of European architecture in the states.

While Solvang was a charming stopover, it couldn’t compare to to the natural beauty of the Central Californian coast. Navigation fortuitously led us to a parking spot a mile from the beach. We walked along the cliffs towards the cave in the horizon and eventually grabbed rope to submerge down rocks to the sand. We later ran up and down the windy dunes at Pismo Beach, where my grandparents once drove their car directly onto the sand.

the only Californian beach where cars can drive on the sand

For several recent years, I declined most beach invitations because “I was not a beach person.” I became fixated on the texture of sand particles stuck to my skin, salt burning my eyes, and direct sunlight prompting migraines and sunburns. Something shifted this summer when I experienced five wonderful beach days. Leaving tan lines instead of burns for the first time since adolescence.

My grandfather and I used to walk backwards into the water while tucking our toes into fins and gliding masks onto our faces. Submerging underwater tuned out all of the noise. We entered our own universes snorkeling, exploring coral reefs solo until I’d suddenly feel a tap on my shoulder, pointing to a turtle. I sometimes carried an underwater camera, half the time accidentally covering the lens with my thumb.

Driving back from the beach straight to the hospital, I was confused, experiencing whiplash, processing overwhelming news while coming down from the high of the coast. I blamed myself for being cursed with extremities and overall intuition. Guilty after suffering nightmares related to this trip for months. Maybe part of exposure therapy was surrendering overbearing control and losing myself to the rhythm of the waves. Sometimes a calming refuge from late-summertime sadness and other times unexpectedly abrasive, knocked down with scraped knees to the shore.

I’ve theorized that based on Aries traits, a theatrical exit seems likely. My grandfather’s birthday was two days before mine. My mother apologized if my date of birth detracted attention from his but he was grateful. Although we shared birthday cakes for years, I had never before spent time comparing our similarities. Both as natural leaders and planners, we found joy in bringing people together. We required slow mornings sipping coffee before anything else.

My own mortality has never scared me more than losing loved ones around me but nothing seems worse than a slow and painful death. Sure, he had health issues like everyone in my lineage. But he spent his last months planning for a hypothetical anniversary party and shared his final conscious breakfast with his brother visiting from France and a friend. Never a death scare but instead only an appreciation for life.

For what felt like the first time, I waited for the phone to ring. And on September 11, 2025, my grandparents’ 60th anniversary, we surely lost him. He met my grandmother in class and they quickly married and gave birth to my mother to avoid the Vietnam War draft. Their anniversary then became a national tragedy in 2001 while they were on a work sabbatical, exploring the states together on a cross-country RV trip.

I felt lucky to grow up with a role model of not only love, but how life is filled with paradoxical irony. Especially how dates can strangely take on multiple meanings.