Sometimes love is too much

Big emotions seem impossible for a young brain

My great-grandmother always loved like her life depended on it. You could see it in her smile — wrinkled yet full of life — she had a constant warmth about her.

Though her name was Nonna, I called her Big Grandma. I’ll acknowledge that it’s weird, and I’d often get side-eye from strangers when I called her that, but my dad’s side of the family all call their great-grandmothers by that same name, so to me it was normal.

Big Grandma loved everyone around her, and she loved them hard. I was her first great-grandchild, so I was always showered in affection. When I’d go to her house, she’d give me anything I wanted. Root beer floats were my favorite; the ingredients were always on hand.

So, after everything she’d done for me, it confused my entire family when I refused to tell my Big Grandma that I loved her.

I remember the first time it happened — I was 6 or 7 — and we were making pancakes for breakfast. She looked over at me, standing there in her red apron, and asked, “Do you want me to make you one in the shape of a heart?”

“No, I don’t love you, so we can’t make a heart-shaped pancake,” I replied.

She, of course, laughed it off and continued to make her heart-shaped pancake, seemingly unbothered by the comment. But I kept saying it. Every time I saw her. She’d tell me she loved me and I would never utter it back.

Once I was a little older, she moved into a senior living establishment. Her apartment was painted a cream color, and she had a big couch, or davenport, as she would call it. I would sit with her and she would tell me stories — putting on her glasses and reading my favorite books — whenever I wanted. My refusal to say “I love you” hadn’t gone away.

When I was 9, she went into a coma in her sleep. She came out alive, but we knew it was close to the end. Even in her times of hardship, her life was always shot through with joy. Smiles, laughs, merriment — these were the things that filled the walls of her small apartment even in her final days.

Shortly after she was home from the hospital, my parents and I went to see her. She seemed to be doing better, and my family from Oregon also came to see her, including my Grandma Karen, Big Grandma’s daughter.

During the get-together, Grandma Karen pulled me into the other room. She told me that, before we left, I needed to tell Big Grandma I loved her.

I argued for a bit, but then she said something I couldn’t shake: “Bella, you know she isn’t doing well. You need to tell her before you lose the chance.”

I already knew how horrible that would be. I didn’t need her to tell me.

Throughout the evening, I got awkward glares from Grandma Karen. I put off saying the dreaded words for as long as I could. It felt impossible to find the right time. But before I knew it, people started leaving, and I still hadn’t said a word.

I panicked. I gave up and hurried out the door, but Grandma Karen followed inches behind me.

She grabbed my arm, pulled me back, and said, “Bella, get in there and tell your Big Grandma you love her.”

There was no way of getting out of it now.

I opened the door ever so slightly, muttering, “Love you Big Grandma,” closing the door as fast as I could, before she could respond.

She died the following Tuesday. Those words — the ones I feared and refused to say for so long — were the last ones I ever said to her.

Soon after her passing, we had a potluck with the family and friends of Big Grandma to celebrate her life. Everyone shared stories and memories of the loving woman they would spend forever missing.

I, too, would spend forever missing her, but I didn’t say it. I didn’t say more than a word or two during the gathering.

People made speeches, telling funny stories about the years Big Grandma spent raising four children and talking about how much she loved her family.

Multiple speeches even mentioned me. My family members said things like “She had such a special relationship with Bella,” or “She loved Bella so much.”

Maybe they expected me to go up and make a speech. I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I couldn’t even tell Big Grandma I loved her to her face, there was no way I would say it to a room full of people.

When I think about it now, the funeral, the way I refused to show my emotions, the way I pushed away the person who loved me the most. I’m still unsure what to make of it. I could boil it down to being a stupid kid who said stupid things, because of course I loved her. But I prefer to think of it this way: I loved her so much, almost to a fault, that it felt like too much emotion for such a young mind.

Almost like the word love just wasn’t big enough to describe my feelings for Big Grandma.