The Definition of Time

Chapter 41

there is this underlying certainty
of all that I do
that assures me of one thing:
that if I saw you again,
we would be the same.
that we were was timeless
and if I were to see you
ten years from now,
your eyes would still know me.
I can't let go of the certainty
that you and I will never change
that what we were
could never be affected
by something so trivial
as time and space
therefore I trust
that even though I may never see you again 
we would still be the same
I have to be sure
that you and I are still us.

February 7, 2017

We rush over to where the nurse stands in teal scrubs with a clipboard in hand. He glances at us indifferently as we wait with bated breath.

"Well?" Mom finally interjects impatiently.

"Theodore is awake and ready to speak with you."

Aunt Carin lets out a little cheer, and we all breathe a sigh of relief. He's alive.

"And the surgery?" Mom prods, "was it successful?"

The nurse hesitates as he scans the paperwork. "Unfortunately, the surgery was largely unsuccessful. One lung has deteriorated to near collapse. There's nothing we can do."

I know what this means: There's no hope. He's destined to live out his final days in hospice care without any chance of survival.

"Can we see him now?" Dad intervenes, and the nurse motions for us to follow him down the hallway.

As we pad quietly down the hallway in the almost reverential silence, I try not to glance into the rooms that we pass. I try not to see the shriveled frames of the cancer patients in only their thin hospital gowns. I try not to see the sterile rooms with only the sound of beeping and the hum of heart monitors to keep them company.

We continue down the hallway until the nurse motions to a door. "Two at a time, please. He's still weak from being unconscious."

Mom and Aunt Carin make for the door at the same time as the rest of us are left to wait and speculate. A few more family members cycle through, and finally it's my turn. Dad thoughtfully asked everyone to give me a moment alone with Gramps. The rest of the family heads back to the waiting room, but Josh remains beside me.

"I'll be right back," I tell him.

He smiles softly. "I'll be here." As I turn away, he stops me with a hand on my arm. "And Rach? No regrets."

By the pain in his eyes, I can't tell if he's talking about us or about Gramps, but I agree with him regardless, "No regrets."

I swing the door open and quietly approach Gramps. He is wrapped in a blanket with an IV in one wrist and breathing tubes protruding from his nose, but I'd recognize his twinkling eyes any where.

"Hey, Gramps," I say, propping myself against the bed and gently holding his wrinkled hand.

"Pipsqueak? Is that you?" he asks, voice nearly gone.

"It's me, Gramps. You don't have to talk. I know you're tired. I just wanted you to know I'm here, and..." I fight to keep my voice even, "and that I love you."

He says nothing, but a ghostly smile graces his wrinkled cheeks and he squeezes my hand.  

We sit in silence for a while until he says, "Rachy, I know things aren't looking so good, but I want you to listen to me." He coughs for a moment and then continues, "Don't stop your life for me. We've had all these good years together, and I don't want to be the reason this one's bad."