I speak with her 

To relate with her 

And realize 

That you have become 

Along with a burden I used to carry

A rock for my feet to stand upon

In our storms 

Someone I can rest my shoulder upon 

I have wet both of your shoulders with my demons 

You have in many ways 

Paved all my roads 

So I can become more myself 

it is hope I can offer now. 

At the end it didn’t matter if we were in the room when you had to pee 

You didn’t have the energy to hide yourself

We could barely make sense of your words, and you could barely chew the ice chunks I gave you. One. At. A. Time. 

Somehow, you managed to say you wanted vanilla ice cream, and I scooped tiny spoonfuls onto your tongue—your last meal. You tried to hard to sip orange juice through your straw, but could not. 

I love you grandpa. There is a hole. I can feel it wide and gaping already. 

I miss your voice, your jokes and your honesty. I didn’t know the last time you squeezed my hand so tight would be the last time you squeezed my hand so tight. 

I know now when you tried to take the oxygen masks off you had just wanted it to be over, you hadn’t wanted to die hooked up to machines. You had refused hospice (where you could have had a glass of real water, comfortable and softly falling into death) out of selflessness, so your daughter and son could come see you once more, but they didn’t come soon enough. So you died uncomfortable, dry as a bone, hooked up to machines, heeving. 

You had put both hands in the air in surrender, waving goodbye. 

I wonder if at the end you had tried to ask for just a moment alone with grandma, but we couldn’t understand what you were saying, or what you wrote down. I wonder if you knew I was there when you took your last breath. I wonder why you waited until max and joe had gone, you passed just minutes after they’d left, when you and I were alone. I wish I had been holding your hand the whole time, that I hadn’t stepped away to brush my teeth. But I don’t know the minute that you went. Was it when I was checking your pulse, squeezing your hand, checking to see if your heart was still beating. I couldn’t tell if it was my own pulse I was feeling or yours. 

At least I know this—that you knew. That last day with clear speech you had held my hand and said that you knew. “You would do anything for me,” had been your exact words when I asked if I could stay the night on a cot. 

Michael had come in, on a break. A nurse who had cared for you when you first got admitted. You told him you were going to die in the hospital, they they had all decided that. And he bent down, and became small, and looked at you so closely. This is how everyone was with you. You told him who I was again, even though you had already told him before. You told him I came almost everyday to see you. I’m sorry if I repeat myself, like he did introducing me to every nurse as his birthday gift. But I want to remember everything. 

Mostly, I remember that last day. People say you shouldn’t. That he shouldn’t be remembered at the end. But it was the selflessness, despite your thinning wrists and voice that was gone, despite the dying that you continued to give that I won’t forget. The words you did have you used to compliment, to call me sweetheart, to say you loved me, to squeeze so tightly even though you couldn’t sip orange juice. I want to remember you this way. I want to be like you. 

And your eyes, small and bead like—looking directly into mine. With all the fear of dying and joy of life and jolly of your spirit, and hope of heaven and sadness of departing—all of it at the same time. I want to remember this.

And I miss you grandpa. Already. I miss you. 

He held on while we were there, standing around him. Waiting. I leaned over him as he tried to anunciate, “did they” he sputtered, “call you... all in here at once?” 

“No no,” I assured him, “we love you. We want to be here with you.” Looking at me straight in the eyes, his were always small like acorns, but tight like oysters, he said, “after this,” (meaning after you all leave), “I’m ready to go.” I was holding onto his oxygen mask so he could speak with out them both in the way. The one was for his nose, the other for his mouth. “That’s fine, Grandpa. You can go, whenever you are ready.” And he shook his head up and down (I saw the defeat in his face) “thanks for the party,” somehow he managed. Everyone laughed. Like he wanted. 

The day drained on. Maybe we should have left earlier so he could die in peace. Instead he hung on with us. Max came back to watch the game with us. He brought a pillow, and blanket for the cot for me. A change of clothes. The toothbrush. Grandpa tried pulling all the masks off a few times. Then would restlessly fall back to sleep. The nurse asked if she should turn off the screen so we wouldn’t be annoyed by the beeping. But it was really because his levels were getting worse and worse, and they knew it was near the end. I could read their faces well enough. He tried writing down a few things that he wanted to say, but only the first few words “just a...” made sense. The rest was in readable. He didn’t have any more energy. 

I was there. Next to the bed. Every half hour I wet down a cloth and rubbed his neck and forehead and face. He could say the word “ice” clear enough. Even spat out st one point “this is shit,” as he threw his hands up and then let them fall at his side. I adjusted the masks again, I moved them up onto his forehead to give him ice chips. All he wanted was a tall class of ice cold water. But the hospital wouldn’t allow it, bc he would choke. So he would bite three times, the let them melt into the back of his throat. 

The very last thing he ate was vanilla ice cream. I spoon fed it, carefully, very small spoon fills into his half opened mouth. He could only handle so much at a time. 

Jamin FaceTimed in, said “hi grandpa, I love you,” but grandpa only stared at the screen. 

I remember cooling him down, it was probably 5 pm. He looked up at me, so small in the bed, his skin yellow. “Sweetheart,” he said. And I thanked him. 

I remember cooking him down, it was probably 7pm. He looked up at me, so small in the bed, his skin yellow. “You’re the best,” he said. And I told him “I love you.” 

It was probably 8 when he put both hands up in surrender. Elbows even were extended. 

It was probably 9 when I sat next to him, trying not to look at him so he didn’t feel completely unable. I had left the room at one point, and he said his very last sentence to us, “what is the score?” He asked max. 

We all settled in again. I sat close. I squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. He held on. This was the last of his strength. 

The nurses came into to wrestle with the room, to help him go to the bathroom...  he had wet the bed. We left, letting them fuss with him. I could hear them promising him “this is going to be over soon, we will let you sleep next, we will do our best to be fast.” We came back, the clean sheets tucked up around him, a new hospital robe. They had given him a sleep aid, as he had told me

Earlier he “hoped he could sleep better tonight than last,” and I asked him if he wanted something to help with that. It was working and he had already fallen asleep. Max and Josiah had left together. 

I came back from saying goodbye to them. He was breathing, but it was labored. I put on sweatpants, then came back and touched his chest to see if I could feel a heartbeat. I couldn’t. I stood there. Still. 

The all too cheerful nurse came in to give his morphine, I could see her looking at his chest, I could see the wondering. She still inserted the needl for morphine and he moved when she said his name and lifted his arm saying something in his sleep. He was still with us. 

I went to brush my teeth. Checking on him while I did. Peering out the door. Imagining that maybe he was still alive but just not moving, maybe the sleeping pill had calmed everything. 

I checked for his pulse on his

Neck

Wrist

Checked again for a heartbeat. 

He looked so different all of a sudden. 

So very gone. 

He had not moved. 

I sat down on the cot. 

I waited. 

I knew they’d come in if the monitors were not bleating up front. 

I waited. 

The cheerful nurse came in, commenting “he looks like he is breathing better now,” but I knew she was lying. She was holding a stethoscope. 

She checked his heart and then left. 

I waited.

Three nurses scurried in.

The one stood between me and grandpa. 

The other took the stethoscope and hovered over him. 

She looked like a Sarah. 

I hadnt seen her yet.

She listens for a minute. 

The looks up. 

“I don’t hear anything” she says. “He has passed.”

“Okay.” I say. 

“I’m so sorry,” they all say like bees. 

“It’s ok.” I said. “I wondered if he was gone.” 

They scurry out. 

I stare at him. 

I comb his hair over thankful I had just cut it a few weeks ago in his bathroom. He gave me 25$ and told me to take max to lunch. I hope they comb it right for the casket. 

He looks so

Empty. I suppose he is. 

I hold his hand, I kiss his forehead. 

I feel a little closer to Jesus in this moment, and I ask “Jesus, tell him I love him.” I must be closer since an angel has just come to take him away. His hands look so empty. I take his hand inside mine. 

I cry. 

I gather up his cellphone and hearing aides, his glasses. The piece of paper he had tried to write on. I stay there a long time, calling Max, my Mom, Josiah. 

I take everything with me. The cheerful nurse apologizes to me again, and I give her the name of the funeral home. I drop everything in the hallway of the hospital, and my sweatpants are falling down. I drop my change of underwear.  The doors don’t work for me. People try to help me but I look like a mess. 

I leave. 

Crawling into bed at home. 

I hold the sweatshirt he gave to me that last day, I hold it all night. It smelled just like him. 

He gets phone calls the next week on that little flip phone of his. I never answer, not even once. 

I write down all of the memories I have of the last few days. His scorn shaped eyes. The words he said with the last of his strength. The sandpaper of his skin.