My grandmother died. 

While she had lived a long, full life and I knew this would happen at some point, it still feels unexpected and so, so sad.

I wrote grandmother in italics because, biologically, she wasn’t my grandmother. She was the very closest friend of my dad’s mom, and she and her husband lived with my grandparents while her husband was in medical school and then away in the army.

Though her name was Helen, everyone who knew and loved her called her ‘Bug’. I’m not sure who originally christened her with the name, but no nickname has ever better fit a person.

She was the tiniest little woman, not even 5 feet tall, nowhere close to 100 pounds, who had a heart bigger than any person I have ever known, despite the fact that it seemed like you could just carry her around in your pocket.

At one point in her life she was a stewardess (‘back then, that’s what they called us!’), and between that dress code and her teeny size, she commenced wearing high high heels every day, no matter where she was going or what she was doing. Running to the grocery store? Heels. Cooking dinner? Heels. Volunteering at a homeless shelter? Heels. And, my favorite, gardening. In heels. 

She lived on Union Street in San Francisco, in a house I can still remember every foot of and smell of. She was always dressed to the nines, not to impress anyone but because she believed everyone deserved to be treated with dignity and respect. 

Jackson asked me last night why I had written ‘grandmother’, as she isn’t, wasn’t, my biological grandmother. It frustrated and saddened me, because to me that’s just semantics. I’ve had three amazing grandmothers in my life. Two of whom were blood-related, one was not. Two of whom I knew and loved, one who I never got to meet.

My father’s mom, Lalla, died when I was 14. I have 14 wonderful years of memories of her home outside Boston, of having ‘beauty time’ with her at her vanity table, of her terrible cooking but beautiful table, of her strong fortitude but slow-moving body, weakened by childhood polio. She knew the names of every person who worked in her grocery store and their entire life history, and nothing passed her by. 

Ruth, my mother’s mom, was an organist and lived with my grandfather in Michigan. Sadly, I never even got to meet her because she died right before I was born, a tragedy at the hands of a drunk driver who I will never forgive. From pictures and stories, she had a beautiful smile, warm eyes, was an incredible musician and was compassionate and kind.

And Bug, my surrogate grandmother who, for all intents and purposes, was my grandmother for 32 years. I have a lifetime of memories with her, of trips together, visits, meals, holidays, thoughtful packages, calls, letters, and more. It was Bug who saw me graduate, saw me get married, knew and loved Jackson and got to know Gray through stories and photos. So yes, she may not be my grandmother by blood, but by life she was a grandmother and so much more.

A label is just that, a label. It doesn’t define a relationship or a love or the memories you share with someone. It is just a starting point, but life and love extend so far beyond that label.

I have always introduced Bug as my grandmother because that’s what she was. She loved telling stories about my dad and his brothers when they were naughty little hellions because she was there, living on the third floor for years and then a permanent fixture in their lives. She let me live with her when I was trying San Francisco on for size. She was there when my heart was broken. She was there for major milestones in my life. She was the one who, when I least expected it, would send a note, a recipe, an article or something of hers she wanted me to have.

She was an incredible part of our family, and I am deeply, deeply saddened to have not had one last chance to tell her how much I loved her. Ours was a cross-country love through letters more than phonecalls, and I wrote her almost weekly, always saying hello, giving a quick update about life here, and telling her how much I loved her.

You can never say that enough.

This Thanksgiving, more than turkey or stuffing, I am forever thankful that this amazing woman was in my life.

I am a better person because of her.