I cared for my grandfather until he died — now I don't know who I am

For the last six months of my grandfather's life, my mornings had a rhythm: wake up, check on Papa, get him coffee, and make sure he took his medicine. After my grandmother died in September 2024, it was just my Papa and me in the house where I grew up. I moved back home in July 2022 after a job opportunity brought me back to Chicago.

After a short hospital stay in July 2025 he decided against treatment; by November he was in hospice, and when he passed in December 2025 the schedule that had governed my days vanished. I don't love calling myself a "caregiver" because that word feels clinical.

I was his granddaughter who loved him, and being there after my Nana died felt like a badge of honor. I made sure he ate, helped him get dressed, and was the person he could lean on when pride made asking for help hard. My younger brother moved in for the last few months and my mom was there every day, but the day-to-day care was mostly me, and my job letting me work from home made it possible.

caregiver, grandfather, grief, hospice, bereavement, medication, remote work, identity loss, family, chicago