Dear Shadow

Thanjira Vimonanupong

Class of 2025

Through the process of writing about my caregiving journey, I have come to understand grief as a non-linear journey but as a constant companion through this cycle of life. My essay uses the metaphor of a persistent looming shadow to represent the complex emotions of caregiving and profound grief that might come in the form of depression, anxiety, or PTSD. The essay primarily illustrates how the experience of caregiving can reshape our understanding of life, death, and an illness journey—exploring how the “Shadow” metaphor reflects the key concepts of caregiver burnout, anticipatory grief, and personifying grief to come to terms with the mourning process.

Dear Old Shadow. You are a constant reminder of my struggle to reconcile with Grandma’s death, a weight I carry even as I try to move forward. I am doing my masters now, doing my best to take care of my mental health, though it’s not easy. I still have to hold on to my phone when I sleep at night because I don’t know when anybody at home will need me again. I see you quite often, here and there. I know you have followed me all the way across the world. I hear you in car horns blaring on Broadway, I see you lurking in the crowds of Times Square’s busiest hours, and I even feel your presence in the depths of the subway tunnels and uneven pavements of New York City.

Back then, you were a constant presence in the sterile quiet of the makeshift hospital room back at home. Your whispers of what-ifs echo against the hum of the oxygen machine and the screeching sound of summer cicadas. I tried to set my phone to silent mode again tonight. I know we’ve been over this many times. Still, now that Grandma is gone and I am so far away from home, I know you are sitting there, late at night, in the dark corner of my one-bedroom apartment, constantly nudging me to check my phone, “What if Grandpa calls?” or worse “What if Grandpa’s nurse calls?” and with every sound of late night sirens I woke up ugly sweating, heart rate pounding. You were there. A constant reminder of the inexplicable exhaustion of being unable to let go of my phone while sleeping. Forward motion, ups and downs, swivel, spinning, nauseating, rising and plunging again. Dear Shadow, our time together from that moment on was what I could only depict as a roller coaster ride. Half the rail section was under the water, and the brake was broken.

You and Me, and the Rollercoaster

I was strapped and trapped, wishing nothing more than for it to stop. But how could it stop when the roller coaster was my grandmother, and you were the seat belt, locking me in place in that front-row seat? After three months again in the hospital, Grandma was back home. Completely bedridden. But in merely two weeks, she’s admitted back to the intensive care unit, suffering from Pneumonia. Another month passed, and now, with collapsed lungs, our family faced a harrowing decision, a very hard one. We allowed the doctor to perform a tracheostomy so that she could breathe with the help of a 24-hour ventilator. She was not in the state to sign a DNR, but the doctor discussed it with our family. They understood our wishes: if she declined during her tracheostomy operation, they were allowed to let her drift into that long slumber. I saw you looming over my mother when she signed the DNR. I’m not sure if she saw you too. Your monstrous grin was hard to forget.

Grandma survived. Then the first wave of COVID-19 hit. Suddenly, I was stuck with you at home, trying to finish my thesis. Next to me was the loud blaring ventilator, but now Grandma was silent. The tracheostomy stabilized her lungs and kidneys, but she could no longer speak. Instead, she made a gurgling noise. You, I felt you in the sound and heat of the ventilator, torn between urging me to take better care of Grandma and questioning if she still wanted to live like this. 2021 arrived in a flash. We started to have more ease from lockdown. Restaurants reopened, and I was happy to see my friends again. But with every step out of the house, you, dear Shadow, felt like an ever-growing blister on my Achilles heel, holding me back. “If you catch COVID-19 and accidentally give it to grandma, there’s no way out of that for her,” you whispered.

Our rollercoaster continued throughout 2021. With a quiet start to 2022. Grandma was in and out of the hospital every fortnight. I learned always to keep my phone fully charged and beside me. I understood more about your presence, Shadow, but I still struggled to comprehend your overwhelming power over me. One summer’s day, I took a call from Grandma’s GP. She spoke in a panic that Grandma had a seizure; the neurologist was on their way. “Maybe she’s fading.” The doctor said. That evening, you sat with me as I prepared and adjusted Grandma’s clothing to suit her bedridden body. That once graceful body had become almost Fetus-like. “She might need it if she doesn't make it through tonight,” said the GP. I can still smell Grandma’s perfume clinging to the fabric. That was the moment when I felt closest to death himself. This is what she will wear to see you, I thought. She stabilized by the time the brain scan was done. It’s the deterioration of her brain that gave her the seizure. We decided against further intervention. They gave her more medication to keep the seizures at bay. In a week, she was home again. You were there, too.

What is October?

I never liked October, and you know that better than anybody else. It always felt to me like the threshold between our world and the underworld was exceptionally thin, and October of 2022 wouldn't let me go easily. I recall watching The Sound of Music with Grandma that evening, singing along to Do-Re-Mi. It was our favorite. Before I left, I kissed her goodnight. You opened Grandma’s room door for me as I exited. You grinned. I went to sleep. Phone in my hand as always. That was the night I got the call from my mom. She sounded serious but not frantic. “We could not find her pulse.” She told me to wait. Fifteen minutes passed. The pulse was back but weak. My aunt called an ambulance. Mom told me I should be on my way to say goodbye. It took me another fifteen minutes to get there. By the time I got there, the first responders were already there to pronounce her death. She looked pale and frail. I got to touch her one last time before rigor mortis started to set in. She felt cold, very cold. But she was smiling. She was ninety-two when she passed in her sleep.

“That’s impressive,” one of the first responders said. I held hands with Grandpa as we watched them leave.

Her funeral procession was filled with purple and pink flowers, her favorites. You never left my side. In Thailand, we cremate the dead, and the family can decide to keep their ashes in an urn or to release them in the ocean. We settled on the latter, with the mutual agreement that it was the only way we could truly let her go - both for us and for her. Do you remember the pants grandma made for me that were cut out from her leftover fabrics? I have grown out of it now, but I still have them folded somewhere in the back of my drawers. I guess that is the part of her that death left for me. Even with your looming presence, Shadow, I am confident that I will meet with her again somewhere, sometime in this spiral of life, and I will remember her through the love we have for each other. So don't tell me that we are forever parted.

It’s now 2025. I’m all the way across the world, keeping Grandma close to my heart, knowing she’s a part of me. I’ve realized now that you and I are forever bound, dear Shadow. If we were meant to stand by each other like this, then I must do my best to learn to keep you at bay. I’m lending just the tip of my fingers for you to feed on from time to time, knowing that grief is a lifelong process. For that, I intend to grow with you beside me, at a healthy distance.

Sending you all my love.

Thanjira

You and Me, and the Rollercoaster

You and Me, and the Rollercoaster