Intergenerational Rhapsody

I called my half-brother that night but he didn't answer, it went to his voicemail. He finally called me back at 3 am which is uncharacteristic for him so it made me nervous before we even spoke.

He told me that my grandma was at the hospital and it wasn't good. She had a seizure in the night, they thought she broke her hip but when they got her to X-ray there were tumors in her brain. They didn't think she'll make it more than a week; maybe a few days if we're lucky.

I immediately called for an Uber and raced over to check on her. I was the closest relative she had. We always had each other.

I had no clue where her daughter — that is, my mom — was. We always were a weird, nutty family. I accepted that a long time ago. No complaints.

When I came into her ICU room, she lay there, her face twisted to the right and her left arm limp. I'm not sure she ever fully recovered from pneumonia, which she was hospitalized with a month ago.

The machines she has been hooked up to beeped like crazy. I placed my hand on hers and said, "It's me, Albert." She didn't stir.

It was apparent she wasn't doing well. Her breathing was labored and shallow. I wished that there was something I could do or say to make her feel better.

The place smelled like old people and iodine. I think it's the most depressing smell in the world.

I didn't want her to be there. Yet what could I do? There was no other place to go. So, I just sat next to her holding her papery wrist, and thought of better times when those hands baked me large oatmeal cookies with extra chocolate.

Then, when my ex-girlfriend Nina died of an overdose, and I was already living elsewhere, I still called her that night and the most poisonous words were coming out of me like vomit. I puked, she listened, and immediately I felt better.

I never told anyone else about what happened to Nina. Everyone at school thought of her as a liar and slut, yet grandma explained things to me her way and I liked her version better.

Nina, said grandma, was just a sad girl who wanted to be loved, and she had no idea how to go about it. I still have Nina's photo in my wallet. Sometimes, I pose that black and white picture of Nina in front of me and talk to her.

Nina wasn't that attractive with her short hair and a small mouth that always seemed to be frowning. No, scratch that. What I meant was that no one else regarded her as beautiful but me. Nina was never popular which is why I liked her in the first place. I don't trust popular girls. There is something about them I can't stand.

Nina was easy on me, she didn't care that I cut class or smoked weed or didn't own a fast car. She gave me the attention I needed at the time and even though we didn't last, either of us has come out better for knowing each other.

Well, I did. That's for sure. Nina didn't. She did, at first, but she didn't last long. And now grandma was going to leave me too, I thought.

As if she could hear my thinking, grandma moaned and woke up. She saw me and her eyes lit up. She looked like a baby bird in bed. It was heartbreaking to see her in this state, but it was better than not seeing her at all.

Funny, I was actually born because of her. I owe grandma Maria my very existence, so to speak. It was an accidental pregnancy for my then-teenaged mom and clearly unwanted.

There were rivers of tears, grandma told me. I can't blame my mom, she was just an 11th-grader when she got pregnant. Yet grandma... she managed to persuade her daughter to keep the baby. That's how I was born.

And after that... After that, I just grew up around grandma like a wild puppy. As for both of my parents, I didn't see much of them.

I had my grandma. That was all I needed. Even when I moved out at sixteen, I knew I always can come back to grandma.

It didn't matter if I was too old for that pink canopy bed or felt like a "seal in the zoo" with her yellow parakeet staring at me while we ate breakfast.

I never heard grandma Maria raise her voice, even when she was mad at me for smoking weed in the house or whatever. She would just get that little wrinkle between her eyebrows and then scowl at me but I knew it wasn't a true scowl of anger; it was the look she gave everyone when she was trying to understand something that didn't make sense to her.

Or maybe she was just tired of yelling at me all the time after I did something wrong?

She's told me stories about how my mom used to "raise hell" as she put it. But I don't recall her ever speaking badly about my mom. Even, I know she abandoned us when grandma wouldn't let her sell drugs out of her house.

I've told my friends about it at school and they thought grandma should have been more understanding until I explained that grandma had principles. If she had allowed my mom to sell drugs, then I might have been dead like Nina by now.

I leaned into my grandma's pale face and squeezed her hand, as though it was a secret code for "I love you." She smiled knowingly, recognizing who I was and what I was saying without having to say it. Her frozen, boney hand lay limp in mine. We kept our hands linked while watching the light shadows dance on the ceiling.

I didn't even feel that sad because somehow I knew she was at peace with whatever final journey she was about to take.

And if anything, this taught me something. Death isn't to be feared; it is a natural part of life. It comes for everyone at their own time, and we all must face it eventually. Because what kind of world would it be if we couldn't die?

As much as I loved my grandma, she couldn't stay here forever.

My pals said that I was lucky to have a grandma like that and I told them, "Yeah. So very lucky."

Suddenly, I sensed something was not right, as if something just had happened.

I glanced up and saw that grandma wasn't breathing. My own hand had fallen from hers to my lap and I heard music playing in the background. I think it was playing in my head. I stood up and closed grandma's eyes. My lips began quivering as I tried to hold back tears.