I don't like RIP's

September 2007

So I woke up this morning to blood and death. Literally.
I got my period and then a phone call from my mother about Grandpa.
He passed away last night at 2:30 am in the nursing home I've grown to hate.
He was 93 years old. His name was Robert Clinton Dawson. It is a sad day today indeed.
So I called into work. No way I'm going in today, my phone keeps reminding me that I'm not done crying yet. But I'm trying to get my shifts covered so I can drive to Houston for the funeral. I called my brother and told him. And my Tia and my closest cousin, Juan.

Oh, but then there's my father. He already knew, but it was hard to talk to my father about his own father's death. My father is a Lion. He crushes carbon into diamonds, such a man is my father, but to hear sorrow dampen his speech the way it did this morning was too much for me…

So I started drinking early today. I sat, glass full and eyes heavy on the top stair at my house and glared at my cell phone. There's an entry in my address book titled "Grandpa Home Phone" and I can't bring myself to delete it. But he's not here anymore. His furniture, his car, his children are here, but the great man himself is no longer with us.

I held his wife's hand when she died. This was my first introduction to death, at the ripe age of 12. Watching the light lift from her eyes as her breath became more and more of an uphill battle she was losing. And my Grandfather kept going from his chair to her bedside, sobbing into his trademark handkerchief until it was soaked with his own tears. I remember her looking up and lifting her arms. And then time stopped. And she was gone. But I kept holding her hand. I kept telling myself that she would wake and ask me why I'm crying. But she didn't. And now, neither will he.

My Tia told me, "You don't know what it's like to lose a parent. It's like you lose your roots; where you came from". I can't imagine what that feels like. I know that there are not enough words in this world to express my sorrow right now. I loved my grandfather more than anyone…my father is a close second, mind you….and he taught me more about life and love than anyone ever has. He taught me how to gamble. He taught me how to ease a conversation with jokes. He taught me to be kind to people and care not whether it will be returned. He taught me about God's love, about love of one's family, and about always being a giving person. He had the kind of smile that would stop traffic…the kind of grip that could crush boulders…the kind of spirit that was free but never forgot where it came from.
 

He's always been a role model for me and during these past few months, it's been hard to see his slow degeneration; A man grown so used to his independence, forced to depend on other people for help. As time went on, he would lose you in the middle of a conversation and not know who you were. This hurt me the most. When I would go to his house, I would have to be introduced as Ricky's Daughter instead of his Angel. He's always called me that. I grew to love it at an early age. And when last I saw him, in that dark and damp nursing home, I leaned in close and told him that his Angel was there. He looked at me like a stranger until I said that. But I could've sworn that his gaze softened when I said Angel. I held his hand close to my chest and told him all the things I've always wanted to. About how much he means to me. How I've always loved and respected him most. How the world is not large enough to contain my love and adoration for him. Such a small, frail man with stringy, white, unkept hair, and a gaping mouth full of expired breath…..I pleaded my heart to such a man, and I was heavy with emotion for just a few minutes of privacy we had, whilst the aunt's were arguing in the hall about his care. I leaned in close and kissed that dry forehead and smoothed his hair around his face. And he just looked at me, blank and waiting, he just looked at me like I was the night nurse there to change his sheets.
 

He just kept coughing and grabbing his chest…the same place every time, where his Pacemaker was. And his body, so skinny now from lack of actual food, had shrunk so small that you could see the diameter of the Pacemaker box sticking out from his chest. He just kept grabbing that box and the warm tears were splashing about my face with every attempt. It was as though he was ready to go…and it was that bitter machine that kept him here. How I loved this man. How every fiber in my existence wanted to make him better, to take away the pain, but I couldn't help him and it was eating away at me. And now I think of my father. My father, the Hero, as I call him. I wish I was stronger, and wittier and able to curb this emotional upheaval into something great. I don't want to think about my next few days. I don't want to think of holding my own father's hand as he whispers prayers to my Grandfather in heaven, wishing him a swift journey, full of bountiful plunder and love, love across the skies for such a beautiful angel he was and will always be to me…

Reviews

[yinseriv]

I want to thank you for offering this story to us. You have a easy style of writing that allowed me to stand with you in that detested nursing home room. The intimate way you were able to speak of the love you had for him gave me respect for that love and your writing.