5 posts tagged “death”

The nurse came out to the living room.  "He only has a few minutes or seconds left of life.  If you like...please go into the room to say your good-byes."

I had been waiting for this.  To hear these words.  Not anticipating them, but expecting them.  I don't think the nurse  was done with what she was saying before my mother and I were up from the couch.  Grandma doesn't speak English but she felt our anxiety and said, "Oh no, it's time.  My old man.  Mi viejito," and began to cry.

We ran into the bedroom.  I didn't know if to tend to my one and half year old or bid my fairwell to my loving grandfather.  I didn't want her to see death; to feel it.  But I didn't want to lose the only chance in my life to hold him one last time and thank him for my life and for loving me and raising me as a child.  For being a strong man with grand goals and great accomplishments.  For being everything he was.  For being so strong during his illness and never complaining.  For making me proud and being a great example. 

I ignored my daughter walking around my bedroom.  I had to hold on to grandpa.  Feel the warmth of his hand one more time.  Kiss his forehead.  Vanessa walked around the room not knowing what was going on, but babbling in her baby talk.  She was fine.  She will never remember it.  And he died so quietly and peacefully that I didn't even know he passed on.

I held his hand tight.  Grandma and my mother on the other side holding his other hand. 

I love you abuelito.  I will love you forever.  I will see you one day and we will laugh and play and never be apart again. 

May your sould rest in heaven grandpa.

I love you.

Grandpa is still here. 

How amazing is it that he has died 3 times and he keeps coming back?

The nurses and doctors say its a miracle, but it also worries them.

Each time he becomes weaker, he suffers more.

Why isn't he letting go?  Does he need something first?  Is there something he needs to say or do?  Someone he needs to talk to?  Unfinished business? 

Please give him some peace Lord.  And if there is anything I can do to help me find his voice please use me to help him.

Grandpa looks so weak.  Yesterday he didn't recognize my grandmother, his wife and love of 65 years.  The woman who's side he can't tolerate leaving for even the briefest of seconds. 

That was yesterday. 

Today, grandpa forgot how to swallow.

 I looked at grandpa's hands.  I remember how strong he used to be;  A real estate developer, a wine maker, the husband of a politician.  I remember his strong hands walking my grandmother up to the podium for her public speeches, and the way he used to hold the grapes for his wine in his hands so delicately.  I remember wondering how a strong hand couldn't wreak havoc on something so demure.  I remember the way grandpa used to point his finger at us  when he was upset and how he used his thick fingers to count money, (which he loved doing). 

I look at his hands now.  They still look strong, but also frail.  There is blood underneath his nails.  Where did it come from?

Grandpa has beautiful green eyes, similar to a bottle.  The old kind that rested heavy in your hands.  You remember the ones; the 1950's bottles.  One look with those eyes and you knew to behave.  Now he can barely flutter his lids. 

I put chapstick on his chapped lips and he looked at me angry as if I were doing something to girly for him.  Grandpa always was macho. 

I miss him. 

He's not gone yet.

Today they gave grandpa dialysis for the last time.  Grandma made that decision last night.  "It's time to let him go.  My old man is suffering too much."  We thought we would have a few days but from the looks of him today, today may be the day.

During dialysis grandpas heart stopped twice.  “Grandpa is going the man giving him the dialysis said.  I can't finish his treatment.  He is too weak.  Call your family, you have only a few hours at most.”

My aunt and I ran to make all he phone calls.  Manolo, Federico, Sergio, Wendy, Maria Lucia, Erica, and the list goes on.  How we all regret having to receive this phone call, but how we thank God he will suffer no more. 

Is it true that the Lord has many rooms in his mansion, one for each of us?  Will we really be his roommates?  Will he meet us at the tunnel with friends and family and even our pets?  Is this all true?  Can I rest my head on my pillow tonight and know that I will no longer be caring for my grandpa but that he will be cared for by so many loving people.  Please lord, tell me this is true.  Tell me everything is going to be ok.

8 hours later grandpa was still with us.  He is still with us now, and it is the following day.  His eyes are open, he recognizes some of us. 

My mother went over to him and said, "Papa, quien soy yo?"  Translation:  “Father, who am I?”  Grandpa quietly and with much difficulty pointed at his heart and said, "mia."  That she is his.  His oldest daughter.  After pointing at his heart a few times with as much strength and power that he could munster my mother said, "papa, recuerdas mi nombre?  Translation:  “Father do you remember my name?”  “Olga”, he said.  "Yes, yes father.  I am Olga.  Your eldest child."  It was sweet, comforting and horrible sad all at once.  I love you abuelito.

The days are short.  Grandpa is going.   

'Mortality' was Abraham Lincoln's favorite poem and his friends often heard him recite it.  It was often a topic they came together to figure out the author of.  But was not discovered during Lincoln's days.  Now days we know the author.  He was a Scottsman William Knox (1789-1825).

Dr. Jason Duncan first introduced Lincoln to the poem when the two were living in New Salem. Lincoln memorized the entire poem and recited it so often that some folks mistakenly thought he was the author. The poem's melancholy tone appealed to Lincoln. William Herndon, Lincoln's law partner, thought the poem was (for Lincoln) a remembrance of Ann Rutledge (whom I believe was his first love), as well as a discourse on the delicate nature of human life.

After reading "The Case of Abraham Lincoln, A Story of Adultry, Murder and the Making of a Great President, by Julie M. Fenster, (where she mentions this being Lincoln's favorite poem), I knew I had to get my hands on it.  I had a bit of hard time finding it (I don't know why that should be),but I finally found it.  I love it!  I can see why he found it dear to his heart.

Abraham Lincoln

MORTALITY

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, the low and the high,
Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband, that mother and infant who blessed;
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure - her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep,
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint, who enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes - like the flower or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes - even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun,
And run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging, they also would cling -
But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.

They loved - but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned - but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved - but no wail from their slumber will come;
They joyed - but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died - aye, they died - we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye - 'tis the draught of a breath -
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?