My heart shatters as she drags in her final breaths. Her eyes wide and unfocused, mouth agape, gasping for air. Thick silent pauses consume the moments between each painful inhale. The seconds tick by.
Tick.
Tick..
Tick...
They say when you are dying, it takes time for your body to stop its mechanics. To stop pumping blood to your organs, to stop your lungs from seeking air. They warn you that their breaths will grow farther and farther apart as the body shuts down. She may stop breathing, and then suddenly gasp for air a minute later. She may twitch. Little synapsis firing off for the last time.
They don't warn you that death isn't fast. That suffering takes place. That the body grows clammy, the jaw unhinges, the eyes open wide, as if seeing something scary and holding in a scream.
They don't tell you that in that moment when dying becomes death, and suffering is eased, life as you know it slips between your fingers like sand. No matter how much or little time you have to prepare, you're not ready.
Time continues on and you want to scream at the clock "Don't you know the world has ended?!" The clock only responds with,
tick.
tick..
tick....
It feels like you're in a fever dream, that this is all some cruel joke that you'll both wake up from. That everything will eventually return to "normal" again. That she will be alive and in her chair, looking out the window at the birds stopping to eat in her bird feeder, and families pushing babies in strollers.
They don't tell you that you'll choke on your words when you get the final chance to say something, anything to them, while they can still hear you. That "I love you" doesn't seem like enough. That there is no preparing for the death of your favorite person.
I hold my breath as she gasps for hers. I squeeze her cold, damp hand as she fights her end. I swallow down my sobs as I watch her, unblinking.
I feel helpless. I can't make this stop. I want it to stop! Please, God, make it stop.
Her labored breaths stretch thin and weaken. Her body finally stops fighting it.
My blurry tear soaked eyes are glued to her chest, waiting to see movement. This can't be it. But she is still. She has died. I silently pray for her to move. Move goddamnit! This isn't the end! We had more time...
My hand squeezes hers harder, as if by force I can wake her up and keep her here with me. But nothing changes. The room is quiet. I croak out a meek "I love you" and "please don't leave me." Terrified that she can't hear me anymore. That I'm too late. I kiss the back of her hand, the color of her skin changing quickly to a yellowish hue. I'm scared. I'm scared to lose her. I'm scared to face this world without her.
So many thoughts run through my mind, but none stick. They swirl like a windstorm, my mind ravaged by the immediate chaos of grief.
They gave me a checklist of what to do when the patient passes. But I forget about this list, I forget about everything, really. I can only see her.
She looks so small, so frail. So unlike herself.
A sob rips from my lips, bubbling up from deep in my chest. I lay my head on top of her arm that rests close to her side. "Please don't go. I can't do this without you."
I cling to her scent, fresh laundry. What if I never can smell her again? The thought jars me. I cry and cry, soaking her skin and the fabric of her gown with my snot and tears.
Eventually, my tears slow down and my breathing calms. I feel unwell. Like my soul has been torn from my body. Like I'm lost in a strangers story.
I sit up, wiping snot on my sleeve. I gently unclasp our hands and rest her arm down on the bed. Standing up, I move around the bed and grab the house phone from the receiver. I dial 1 and the phone rings out.
"Hello?" A groggy voice fills the speaker.
I choke on my words, unable to speak.
"Hello?!" The familiar voice speaks again, this time with agitation. "If this is kids prank calling me again, I'm going to write down your number and call the cops! Do you hear me?" I hear a rustling on the other end, picturing him pulling out their notepad and a dulled pencil with an eraser bitten off from the cluttered side table drawer.
"Dad..." I whimper, curling my body into itself as I sink to the floor.
He breathes a heavy sigh, "I'll be over." The line goes dead but it takes me a moment to register it. I let the phone slip out of my hand and onto the floor. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I rest my head on them and cry again. I feel so alone.
This is my new normal, I think. Pain, sadness, grief.
I'm pulled from my tear-soaked daze by the sound of heavy footfalls. I lift my head to watch as my dad lumbers into the room, his red rimmed eyes landing on his mother in her hospice bed.
"Did you call the nurse?" He pivots, glaring down at me.
I shake my head no.
He grunts and points at the phone on the floor, "Give me the phone."
I do as he says and watch as he dials the Hospice nurse's phone number from the card she left on the coffee table.
He speaks to her quickly, with little emotion.
Hanging up, he places the phone back on its receiver with a thud. "She'll be right over."
He paces the house until the nurse arrives. He doesn't look at his mother as the nurse directs my dad to call the funeral home and she preps the body.
Did you know you can request the body to be bathed before the funeral home takes them away? You can also pick out an outfit for them to wear. Kind of like picking out what pajamas you're going to wear to bed. But not exactly... No, this is more final. The nurse asked me to pick it out, but the pressure is too much for me. I can't make a decision on what she should wear to be transported to the funeral home in - maybe her favorite nightgown covered in cardinals, or maybe a soft flannel set to keep her warm. I think the nurse see's me struggling and decides for me. She keeps her in her hospital gown.
I move to the couch and out of the way as the funeral director arrives with a stretcher and a black body bag.
I watch as the hospice nurse and the funeral director talk beside my grandma's body. They exchange details but nothing is registering. I feel like I'm submerged underwater and everything is muffled and unfocused.
I have to leave the room when the funeral director begins placing her body in the bag. I can't watch. My heart clenches at the thought and I feel lightheaded and like I could throw up.
My dad stays to help.
I hear the wheels of the stretcher squeak on the hardwood floor and the muffled voices growing farther away. From the kitchen, I glance out the window above the sink to see them loading her into the back of the hearse.
A tear slips down my cheek, "Goodbye, Grammie." I whisper. "I love you so much."
