Grandmother

Grandmother was in the hospital for a week before Father called me. You have to come, he said. I’ll pick you up tomorrow. My heart dropped just a bit. It was serious. The last time Grandmother was in the hospital, I wasn’t even told until after a month when I came home to visit for the weekend. I think my parents chose to deliberately conceal such information from me, so that I could focus on my studies. As the first in my family to go to college, it was important for them to see me succeed, for Grandmother and Grandfather to know their little girl was making it, just as they had predicted.

I didn’t tell any of my friends at school I was leaving to go home because of my grandmother. For some odd reason, I thought Grandmother would get better once I saw her. The only people I told were the professors whose classes I was going to be missing. I took homework with me, just in case I got stuck in the hospital with nothing to do but watch Grandmother immobile on the hospital bed. They put in the tubes, Mother told me. Your uncle and aunts let the doctors do it. She shakes her head sadly and with obvious disapproval. Your Grandmother would have never wanted that. Since Grandmother couldn't speak, Youngest Uncle and Aunt 1 and Aunt 2 made the final decision without consulting the entire family. Now I couldn’t hear my Grandmother’s soothing voice that sometimes crack and her cough that she occasionally has because of her asthma. I never got to hear her speak again. She died, intubated and I watched her fade into a sleep she would never awaken from again.

Grandfather was angry at Father for not picking me up. She’s only waiting for her child, he berated his son. I know it, he said, I know she’s just waiting for Lucy. Father finally acquiesced and called me. Sometimes I blame my parents for not calling me sooner. Perhaps if I had been there, Grandmother wouldn’t have died. But Grandmother died, and there’s no use for blame.

My cousins still blame me though, for not calling them, for not letting them watch Grandmother draw in her last breath. I didn’t get to see either, tears form in my eyes; I could only tell them, I’m sorry.

Grandfather and I decided to spend the night with Grandmother. My family doesn’t believe in letting a family member stay in the hospital by themselves. It’s better if there’s someone else, someone familiar, Mother says. And ending up in the hospital brings out everyone that may have ever known you in your life to visit. And there’s a galore of food that is brought – fresh chicken broth, fresh rice, fresh water from home, fresh fruits. It's like a party sometimes with everyone crowded in the small room. The nurses don't like it when there's too many people, and sometimes have to come in to quiet down the crowd when the laughter gets too noisy for the other patients next door.

Grandmother died that night – the first and last night I was with her. I think somehow it was meant to be that way. That Grandfather was right. That Grandmother was only waiting for me. Waiting for me to see her one last time before she left. Her spirit couldn't leave her body until she said her final goodbyes to the people that meant a lot to her. To the people that still held a piece of her on earth.

I don’t like hospitals. I think of all the people who have died, of the spirits that can’t find their way to heaven, and I get scared. So scared that I sneaked in to use the toilet in Grandmother’s hospital room, even though we’re not supposed to. I hear my grandmother’s wheezing. And I think she’s in pain. I ask the nurse if there’s anything she can do to ease Grandmother's pain. No, she informs me. She looks at me with a little bit of sadness in her eyes, a little bit of compassion.

Grandmother’s mouth is dry so I take the little bottle of Vaseline Mother brought with her earlier that evening, and apply a layer of protective coating around her mouth, on her lips. How chapped they are, I think. I also apply some to her tiny feet and massage her feet as I do so. I remember how she loved it when my siblings and I brought water on New Year’s eve to wash her feet and Grandfather’s. As I poured the lukewarm water onto her feet, and started to rub, washing and massaging, she smiled warmly, hugely and blessed me. Let this year be a wonderful year for you child. May you have what your heart desires. She would say. And she’d put her tiny hands on my head, and her fingers would massage my forehead. Satisfied I did a good job, I took her feet, one by one, out of the water and with my towel on hand, dried her feet.

Grandfather was sleeping on the temporary bed the nurse had brought for us. I’m afraid you’ll have to do with the armchair, she said. I nodded and told her I didn’t mind. I’m probably not going to get much sleep anyway. It was 3 a.m., my butt cheeks hurt from the uncomfortable chair. I try to close my eyes and will myself to fall back asleep but cannot. I sneaked a peek at Grandmother, good, she’s still breathing it seems. I look at Grandfather and lovingly wonder what would happen to him if Grandmother died. The early morning nurse came in the room for her daily check. I didn’t pay her any attention, it was probably no different than when a nurse came in 2 hours earlier.

The nurse finishes checking Grandmother’s vitals, and proceeds to touch Grandmother’s feet. She frowns. She turns to me and with a sad voice, but concerned look, she tells me that I need to be prepared. Prepared for what? I’m confused and asks her for clarification. She tells me Grandmother’s temperature is dropping. See, if you touch her feet, you can tell how much cooler they are now. I rose from my chair to touch Grandmother’s feet. They were a little cold. Couldn’t we just put socks on her feet? I asked. The nurse shakes her head. She says, I want you to be prepared. Maybe you should call someone? With elderly people, like your Grandmother, sometimes, we don’t know when they’ll go. It could be two hours, two days, two weeks. We don’t know. But we do know they’re slowly dying. She left the room and I was shocked. My mind raced at a million paces. Do I wake up Grandfather? How can I tell him his wife is dying? How can I explain? Who do I call? What do I do? I walked around Grandmother’s bed and touched her face, her arms, her legs, her feet. Grandmother, what do I do? I tell her not to die, plead with her to get better. I’ll be a better Granddaughter I promise.

Finally, resolute, I call Mother and Father. 10 minutes later, they arrive, along with Second Uncle and his wife, and Aunt 1. Their arrival awakens Grandfather, who is surprised to see everyone there, and demands an explanation. I cannot bring myself to explain, and let Mother and Father do the talking. I must have still been in shock, because Mother sends me out to call my siblings. There’s only one phone in the room, and Second Uncle's wife is using it to call the rest of the family. I rush to the waiting room and leave messages for my siblings. I wasn't gone long, but as I walked back into the room, Grandmother had died, and everyone stood around her bed, crying and wailing. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. And I couldn’t, didn’t want to see Grandmother lifeless on the bed. I turned around and stepped out of the room. I sat on the cold floor and didn’t get up until Older Brother arrived.

It’s not my fault, I told myself then. I tell myself it’s not, even today. But sometimes, I wonder, if only I had been there earlier, had spoken with her, had been a better Granddaughter, a more loving Granddaughter, had spent more time with her, perhaps today she would still be with me. And though I have moments of self-doubt, of self-blame, I still remember the words she uttered to me when I was seven going on eight. I’ll come back to watch over you after I die. And somehow, that makes me feel better. Now I understand her words and appreciate her telling me this, loving me enough to come back to look after me, even after death.