We’ll Be back tomorrow
We sit at Grandpa’s side as he lay unconscious, the planned two-week separation between us expedited to a mere 72 hours. Serene music plays on the television where football played in a continual loop barely two days prior.
The peaceful music makes me anxious. It feels as if the air has been sucked out of the room.
Our hands hold his, praying they will squeeze back. Wishing his eyes will open and offer one more of his sly winks, as if this was one last joke of his. His grand finale. We keep the door to his room closed, hoping we can keep Her at bay a bit longer. Her distant footfalls echo down the hall outside. They seem louder than when we were here last. Closer.
Death.
The Period at the end of all of our sentences. Finite and Unwavering, She is the revolting Sister that loudly reminds us of the bounded timeline upon which we are placed. And if we choose to not recognize Her tugging at our sleeves, She will make Her presence known nonetheless. There is no Life without Death in our fragile state, yet we are often distracted from this fact by the day-to-day delirium of being told what to need and want, expelling our fleeting time and energy to obtain such things. All while Death waits.
She has all the time in the world for us to forget that we don’t.
She has all the time in the world for us to ignore Her presence, until She steps out from the Shadows and takes one of us by the hand and leads us Elsewhere. Only then do we get a glimmer of Her piercing eyes. Eyes made of mirrors. Mirrors reflecting all of our regrets and triumphs. Mirrors where all of our should have’s, could have’s, and did’s stare back at us. Scream at us. Decorate us. As we face these realizations, the silence of existence is deafening. The tape of our life plays in rapid-succession. The memories of our past and the future-that-could-have-been projected onto the backs of our eyes. The inevitable tick tick tick of the reel reaching its end fills the silence.
I was awakened to this understanding as I sat treatment after treatment, hooked up to various monitors and IVs pumping me with the chemical concoction of the day. And I am reminded of it now, as I sit in my Grandfather’s room, watching as he slips farther and farther away with each passing moment. Listening as his breaths shorten and Her’s draw nearer.
I know there is nothing I can do or say at this point to stop the inevitable. To stop Death from letting Herself in. So I cling to each moment as if it is a mere thread. A thread that, if pulled, would unravel the entire fabric of his body and leave nothing but the warm imprint of where he lay.
The Hospice nurses swarm into the room to adjust Grandpa’s position, and I quickly shut the door behind them. I brace myself as I lean against the door, staving off Her thin fingers from tugging on those delicate fibers.
The room falls quiet as Grandpa is lifted and lowered back onto the bed. We wait for either silence or one more rattling breath to fill his sunken lungs. I feel Her breath on the other side of the door. Cold. Expectant.
We cling to each of his exhausted breaths. The long gaps between them lasting what feels like minutes and then miles. We hold our own for one more of his.
Finally his chest rises and so do our heads. She leaves, for now.
As I sit back down on the overstuffed chair, I look around at the various photos of my family that adorn the room. The refined blobs of ink composing the past and a longing of what our former selves were. My eyes scan over all of the frozen moments, and I find myself aching for the ones that occurred just before or after the shutter closed.
The slight adjusting of hair right before the family portrait was taken. The licking of fingers after cutting the wedding cake. The turning back to the sink to finish the dishes while the tv hums from the next room over. These are the moments that do not exist in ink. They are the ones that only existed in flesh and undetermined timelines.
They say a photo is worth a thousand words. I’d give for just one more of yours right now, Grandpa.
I wring my hands as I look to the ground, thoughts of how simultaneously wrong (for you) and right (for me) everything needed to go for us to get to this point. The various cogs and gears of my body continuing to grind and push onwards while yours slow down. We poured drugs into my veins to chase out the imposters who threatened to take everything. The slash-and-burn equivalent to a cure. There was no cure for you. Your fevers continue to spike as your body fights the imposters that could not be chased.
I am of your blood, but the hands we have been dealt are not the same.
Yet, as I sit here fighting back Death from turning the door-handle and letting Herself in, I realize something. People consider Death the tragic figure in our lives, and for some She undoubtedly is. That doesn’t feel far off in this particular moment. Yet, I think a greater tragedy is the collective assumption of how long all of our sentences will be before She places the Period.
Death becomes the Tragedy when She arrives before Her presumed appointment time.
Sadness. Anger. Regret. These are all things Death undoubtedly carries with Her. But tragedy seems to come with certain parameters of unexpected loss. And as we go along, assuming what we are owed in terms of time upon this terrestrial plane, we are collectively numbed by the whirlpool of societal requirements for a “full life,” without appreciating the fine line we all walk on and the pain we all share. (Undoubtedly some more than others.) But we have all lost. Homes, jobs, those we’ve loved. Yet we quickly forget this when we march onwards in the power struggle of claiming our own freedom (financial, societal, emotional), only softening when it is time for Her Appointment. Only when we are forced to look down and see the tightrope we all tread upon do we realize how amazingly complex and poignant we all are. At least, I like to think most of us do.
After my transplant, I thought I would learn to forget about the trivial matters. To appreciate the small moments of the in-between, like the ones from the photos I long for now. To drink in the beautiful nuances of strangers and family alike. After all, who knew how many opportunities I had left. Why waste them on fretting bad traffic or the curt email I just received.
I thought me achieving the freedom of living each day untethered to an IV would finally drown out the cacophony of comparative noise and judgements. And some days it has. But most days I find myself falling into the rabbit hole of discontent, the laundry list of things I want and should be growing longer until I am drowning in a sea of disgruntlement. Why am I always falling back into—
My phone dings with Tweets and Instagram notifications. The world calling me back to the watering-hole of comparison and “needs.” Focusing my attention on the latest gaming console or how many followers I don’t have.
Ah yes. That’s right. The world continues as others are marked indelibly with Her effortless grace, each of us collecting our hidden scars and running to join the ones She has not yet taken in the Life that has moved on. The Life that is constantly reminding you to catch up. To forget the silent acquaintance of Grief, if only for a moment.
Yet Grief is the friend who is always ready to pick up where you left off. Each turn of the knife cutting a bit deeper than you last remember.
The knives seem to be getting sharper these days. The visits more frequent.
My Mom gently touches my shoulder, it is time to go. I give my Grandpa a kiss on the forehead, inhaling deeply. The warm smell that has always been distinctly his fills my lungs where I tuck it for safe-keeping. A mix of flannel and bar soap.
We love you and we’ll be back tomorrow.
As my Mom and I close the door behind us, I wiggle the handle to make sure it won’t budge under Death’s grip. We walk down the hallway towards the front door as I listen for Her footfalls. All is silent except for the drone of the televisions in the common room and the shuffling of a resident’s feet.
—
I should have barricaded the door. I should have stacked these words in front of it so they would fall like marbles with any slight movement and cast Her sideways.
The dull ache from where Grief’s knife was plunged earlier that morning reminds me of why we are here. Why I am standing with my Mom at the family cemetery plot, taking note of where Grandpa will be buried.
The grass is soft beneath my feet. The air cold upon my face.
I steel my face towards the wind. Hundreds of mothers, fathers, bigots, and saviors resting peacefully a few feet below my own. I wonder how peacefully they really do sleep. While the agitated world around their eternal bed continues. While the world continues to step forward and backwards day after day. A constant oscillation between progress and regression.
And in that moment, I find peace standing amongst those whom Death tucked in long ago to rest. It’s as if the Earth knew that all should remain quiet here. Even the sky, breathing soft sighs of relief, could rest the thick blanket of grey clouds a bit lower in the sky. A welcomed repose from their weight.
We no longer hold our breath. We simply hold each other.
Yet Grief and Death linger in the breeze. There is no sudden outcry in surprise. It is the slow, undulating waves of unrelenting sadness that crash upon you moment after moment, the quietness of a fleeting reminder that you’ll be ok as the pain recesses like the tide. And just when you feel like you can breathe, the waves come crashing down again, reminding you of the loss of what was and never will be again.
A reminder that there are no doors for me to lock. No fabric to protect. The threads have been pulled.
We love you and we’ll be back tomorrow.
IN MEMORY OF GRANDPA