New Normal

Green light.

Traffic’s light for a Friday morning. Cars are moving at a steady pace, heading to destinations only known by their driver. Driver’s putting on makeup or having private concerts. Other’s thinking about what the day will hold, having phone conversations. As I’m driving, I’m praying that my worst nightmare isn’t becoming reality.

Pulling into the hospital parking lot I try to prepare myself for what I’m about to see. Parking, taking deep breathes to focus my mind and fight back to the tears. Opening the car door, grabbing my bag, I try to anticipate what I’ll say to security before heading toward the elevator. Closing the car door, walking nervously to the revolving doors with tears on the rims of my eyes. I get to the security desk and give them the room number. As I wait for them to give me the all clear to head up, the nerves feel like they are going to get the best of me but I’m still optimistic that a miracle’s going to happen.

Going up.

The elevator doors open, and I press the button that will take me to the seventh floor. On the short ride up, I’m praying that this is all a dream which I’ll wake up from and everything will be alright. Greeting nurses at the nurse’s station, asking for directions to room 749. Standing outside the room, I hear laughter which makes me feel hopeful. As I enter the room, I see him, in the bed with his eyes closed and oxygen cords coming from his nose.

I’ve seen him like this before, but never this thin and week. I think he recognizes me. I go to hold his hand and tell him who I am, and he smiles. He asks for water and ice and as I’m feeding it to him, I’m reminded of how we would sit and eat entire watermelons together when I was a kid. He starts to become incoherent and disoriented. He’s grabbing my arm tight as if he’s afraid or nervous. I hum a soft lullaby to help ease the disorientation. This works for a time, but he’s become more and more incoherent the longer I’m there.

With the oxygen turned up to 100% I know that if they turn it down, he won’t be able to breathe. For the past week they’ve tried weening him down to a level in which he’s able to sustain breathe on his own. He’s never able to get to that full lung capacity unassisted. This is what they meant when they told us that they had done all that they could.

Waiting.

Watching someone take their last breath is hard. Especially when you know it’s coming. Saturday, the palliative care director comes into the room and tells us what to expect over the next few hours. She explains that they’ll turn off the oxygen machine and provide medication to help ease the pain. As time goes on, the oxygen will leave his body until there is none left. The first hour, the family prayed. We thanked him for being a good father, grandfather, brother uncle and role model to us all. The second hour we reminisced on personal encounters with my grandfather. Things like fishing trips, hunting, and gardening with him. How he made the best pinto beans and cornbread and how he could cure a wasp sting with a quick swipe from the inside of his lip where his tobacco sat. The third hour, we sang church songs that he always enjoyed hearing. The fourth hour, everyone said their last goodbyes. Everyone but my aunt and youngest uncle. The children that I think were his favorites. They stayed with him until his last breath as a way to help welcome him to his wife and my cousin.

Grief.

After his passing, sometimes we didn’t know what to do with our emotions. Sadness and anger seemed like the first emotions that surfaced. Sad because he’s gone, angry because there’s no way of bringing him back. As we are continuing to work through the grieving process, it’s drawn some of us closer together while pulling others further apart. It’s been a long game of hurry up and wait. But while we’ve been waiting, we’ve also been living. Living like tomorrow isn’t promised. My grandfather always taught me to take that leap of faith in all things. Start that business, take on that course, apply for that job. Whatever you do, do it to the best of your ability and with your whole heart. It’s alright to be sad but learning not to dwell in that sadness for too long is how you persevere.

New Normal.

Getting back to the new normal of life was and still is a hard thing to work through. Going to his house always triggers a realization that when I walk through the door, he won’t be sitting in that old chair watching westerns with tobacco in his lip. Eating cucumbers and tomato with salt, pepper and vinegar now brings up a happy feeling that I’ll never be able to fully explain. Knowing that he won’t be here physically to watch me announce that I’m having a baby or take part in helping raise my children makes me sad, but I know that he’s always here spiritually to help guide me. Creating memories without him there feels selfish but I always remember that without his words of wisdom I may not be able to make those memories.

As I was driving to TJ Maxx one day listening to the Hamilton Soundtrack, Dear Theodosia came on and I began to cry. At first, I had no clue why I was crying but as I listened to the lyrics, a light bulb went off. The lyrics,

“You will come of age with our young nation

We'll bleed and fight for you

We'll make it right for you

If we lay a strong enough foundation

We'll pass it on to you, we'll give the world to you

And you'll blow us all away

Someday, someday”

made me think of my grandpa. It made me realize that he laid out a path for all his descendants so that we would be able to achieve our wildest dream. The long hours, laboring, and many hats that he wore has and will continue to make it easier for me to blow him and everyone else away. With this, I want to thank him for always believing in me, investing time to show me that I am loved and providing me with tools of knowledge that I will forever cherish.