March 27, 2007
This was a long hard day for me. Vincent and I both left work at noon. It was a tuesday. The Drs. and specialists insisted that there wasnt much time left and we didnt want to waste a minute of it. As we pulled into the hospital parking lot, I could feel my heart racing. I was never good with death. My knees were like rubber, my skin was flushed and I felt like there was a rock in my throat. I was trying to hold in my fears and my tears for my husband. And then there was the elevator, closing in on me, and all I wanted was the churning in my stomach to stop. And then, there we were, at his door, the smell of sterilization and sickness invading my nostrils. His door was closed, so Vincent knocked, and his mom opened the door. He walked in and I followed close behind.
There was my Grandpa, by marriage. But I never thought of him that way. Of all the inlaws, he had always treated me like I was his granddaughter. Hed loved me, and my children and I loved him so very much. His skin was pasty, his hair long gone, from the chemo, and he was sleeping, his breath raspy and slow. But he was breathing. I said a prayer of thanks, and then Vincent and I flanked his sides, holding his hands, touching him and talking of the weather, his cows and goats, funny stories, and telling him what the kids were doing.
When two of us could no longer take the pressure, two more family members were there, ready to hold his hands. He was not alone once, in the 5 weeks he was hospitalized.
That day, we were given a precious gift. The Doctors said that he would be so drugged that he wouldnt be able to achknowledge us again. None of wanted to see him hurting. His organs were shutting down. We accepted that.
But at 3 that afternoon, his eyes groggily opened, and he saw each of our 30 faces. We all piled in the, completely ignoring the 2 people at a time rule. The sight of all of us squeezing into that tiny hospital room must have been overwhelming. The nurses looked in dissapproval. We didnt care. Grandpa knew he was really loved.
I took my youngest son to see him after he passed, at the insisstance of Vincents family. Little Vincent was old enough to know that he didnt want to go and I didnt make him. I held Cody to my chest and spoke softly to him about Grandpa, and how he wasnt sick anymore, and he was living with Jesus, and we would soon see him again.
And suddenly, Cody began to sob. Not tears of a child, hurt, but real, heartwrenching sobs, loud, and uncontrolled, and that was what broke me. All the emotions Id been holding in were freed by the complete honesty of myCody’s grief.
Its a kiowa tradition to cut your hair off when someone you love passes. It symbolizes your pain, and as your hair grows back, it symbolizes your healing. I cut my hair and put the braid in grandpas casket.
I thank God that my sons knew their great grandpa. He was precious to us all.
He had a unique and intimate relationship with each of his children and grandchildren. They were devestted by his loss, but there was no unfinished business, no words left to say.
He took his last breath knowing his legacy would live on, and that he had truly loved and been loved as completely as a man could have been.
His daughter said to him, ” Daddy, we will be okay.” And that was all he needed to hear, before he went Home.
And I had that moment. A momewnt of realization, where I looked around the room, and saw the faces, and knew, we would be ok. This pain will get better. You’ll experience more loss, but “This too shall pass”. Your hair will grow back, and youll transition into acceptance.
Your heart will heal. And in that moment, I could see the beauty of the moment. 2 grown men holding the work worn hands of a man, fervently praying that he will feel no more pain.
Sisters with wrapped around one another, sharing childhood memories.
And cutting a wedding shower cake in the family waiting room, because the bride to be wouldnt attend her own shower, refusing to leave her grandpas side, if just to watch him sleep.
Beautiful. We love you.
Thank you. Its one of my favorites.