Grief

It can happen while I'm sipping my coffee, while I'm showering, while I'm moving boxes at work, or at the end of a good day, when I'm happy and content and my body welcomes the rest. Bits of the memories assault me at any time, unannounced. My brain plays me bits of it and forces me to watch.

I remember the terrible, anxious feeling I had in my stomach before going to see him. I remember trying to be hopeful and calm, in my head the only worry being my mom. It wasn’t fair for her. It was a complete different setting from other times and she had been alone all those four days. In that moment, I realized how much I hated being far from my hometown. I decided to be strong for her. I didn’t want her to worry about me, I wanted her to be the one taken care of, while this was sorted. He was going to be okay in a few days, but she wouldn't. So I soldiered for her.

But I think I knew, somehow. Something felt wrong and it made me more anxious than normal. I shoved all the feelings deep, deep, deep. I shoved all the anger I had felt that week. That anger that blocked me from calling him before seeing him. (I still try to not be angry at myself for not calling him. I didn’t know.)

We went in. The building was white and it made it feel like an omen. 

I was numb at the moment, but now I can recall how much I hated it. It seemed bright and hopeful, but in reality it was confusing and dizzy. I hated that he was in such a place. I hated the fact that people had to come there to heal when it didn’t look like a healing place at all. He deserved better, everyone there deserved better. 

After a long and very white walk, and going through a scandalous number of doors, I went into his room. I breathed hard and reminded myself I had to be strong, calm, normal. It wouldn’t be something horrible, it would be something that would eventually pass. I was sure of it. It had to be.

The room was arranged like his room at home, but it wasn't, and that made my emotional steadiness wobble. He was resting, lying in bed, like he would be at home. But it wasn't home and it wasn't his bed and his wedding picture wasn't hanging in the wall. It hit me, hard. All the pre-work of shoving down my feelings started to crumble. But I held them tight. For Mom. 

He didn’t say anything about me being there. I was waiting for it. They hadn’t told him anything, so he didn't know, but it seemed like he knew I would be there. It broke my heart he wasn’t surprised. It breaks a bit more everytime I think about it. I wish he had been surprised.

He was calm, so I tried to hung onto that. I had to be too. 

For Mom, for him.

We tried to, but he couldn’t drink his coffee properly. His back ached. He spilled some. Mom began to get uneasy. My eyes started to sting. 

I stopped myself from crying. I had to be strong. 

For Mom, for him.

He was thin, thinner than I’d ever seen him. Mom warned me about it before going. “He’s very thin, just so you know. It’ll shock you.” I thought she was exaggerating. 

She wasn’t.

He was also weak. He was very drugged. His back ached, he repeated. 

I stopped myself from crying for the second time. 

For Mom, for him.

He started talking. He did it slowly but calmly. He talked about how he had fallen the night before. He had been crying for help for almost an hour.

Third time is a charm. I started crying, in silence. Mom was crying too. She held my hand, tight. 

For me.

If he noticed us crying, he didn't say a word. I should have known then what was happening. He would have said something at another time. But he went on. His back hurt, he couldn’t move, he had fallen. I thought about him in a wheelchair and how Dad had widen the house doors in case something like that happened. I thought we were lucky Dad had made that decision, because he would need it now, when he went back home.

While he was talking, he didn’t make a single joke. Nor a single rhyme. He talked about where his money and clothes were, and how he wanted us to have them. He knew at that moment, Mom says. He knew what was happening. 

We didn’t. We clung into him being him. Into it being another one of those hospital visits. He would be back home that weekend, we were certain.

(It was Saturday.)

He was in and out from the world. We didn’t stop crying, but we did try to make him laugh.

I don’t remember if he laughed. I wish I did. I wish he did.

He fell sleep for a bit. He was so peaceful. Mom and I still held hands while crying in silence. Then, he shifted, dreaming in his sleep. Sometimes he looked like he was talking, other times like he was moving. At one moment he reached out his hand towards Mom. She took it and cried. He held it tight while dreaming. I watched them while I felt my eyes would never stop stinging. 

Later, Doctors came in and recommended to take him to the hospital again, for a check up. They asked him and he explained how much his back hurt still. Mom said I should go home, along with Dad and my brother. I nodded. I said my goodbyes. I thought about going back tomorrow. It hurt, but I wanted to see him more. 

I wouldn’t see him again, ever, but I didn’t know that at that time.

I was walked out of the building, back to the fake hopefulness and lightness. I climbed into Dad’s car and he asked me how they were. I told them while sobbing. My body knew, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it back then. Brother held my hand. 

I don’t remember anything from that afternoon. I look back now and, for me, time stopped that morning. I couldn’t feel the minutes passing. I could have been there for hours or days, and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Mom came back home at night. She told us how he had eaten dinner and that he was feeling much better. He was even stronger. I relaxed a bit. I would see him tomorrow.

Mom’s cry woke me up at 8 a.m. the next morning. I'll never forget all the feelings I felt at that moment. I listened to her talking on the phone, her voice cracking while asking questions. I stood up immediately, went out to find my parents. The call ended and I remember asking something along the lines of “Did it happen?”, my voice brittle. Mom quickly sobered up and said “Not yet, honey, but it will today”. I started crying. Mom hugged me but rushed me to get changed to be there in time. 

The car trip was a daze. I cried and then stopped and then cried again and stopped once more. It took so long. I was exhausted when we got there.

We waited outside of the hospital for my aunt. When she came, we hugged. Both my aunt and Mom went together to his room. We went to the café. I didn’t eat a single thing. We went back outside and waited. My cousins came. We hugged them.

We waited.

I texted my boss: 

It seems like he’ll pass today. I will need to take a few days off.

She replied: 

Oh, well, it may look like it, but he can get better too. Let’s hope for the best!

Half an hour later I texted her back:

He passed.

(It was Sunday).

Between those two messages, a phone call to Dad from Mom, a sob from my cousins and me, hugs from Dad, and the sound of cars driving past and birds chirping and flying.

Nothing could stop birds. Neither other people’s lives. My grandpa had just died, but the rest of the world went on and on. It made me feel number. I recall thinking how birds still moved that day. I recall thinking about how I had to write about it. 

Birds flew while I stood still outside the building where my grandpa last breathed. People parked their cars while I stood still outside the building where my grandpa had had his last dinner. Friends came to hug us and console us while I stood still outside the building from where my grandpa would never come back. 

No matter how much I stood still, everything moved. I wouldn’t be the one awarded with time freezing.It made me feel worn out. 

My aunt and Mom came down. We all hugged them and cried with them. 

I remember thinking a lot about Mom being an orphan. It’s a thought anchored in my heart. It makes me want to hug her every second.

It’s been nine months. 

There won't be anymore places we can walk together. There won't be anymore calls where you ask me about the weather and tell me about the movies you've seen at the cinema with grandma. There won't be more pizza and art exhibitions where you're surprised and shocked about modern day technology, while Brother and I think it's the most basic thing in the world.

I miss calling you. I miss your voice. I miss you asking me what to wear. I miss you making me angry. I miss you making me laugh. I miss seeing you in my dreams, where you've only come one time so far. 

I miss you.