stale hospital stench
The past few weeks have been pretty tough. I haven’t really talked much about it, except to a few real life friends.
My grandpa is dying. He’s been in the hospital for a month, but a week ago they said they can’t do anything else, so they put him on a morphine drip and give him a valium shot twice a day to make him comfortable. He hasn’t been awake for several days.
All last week I avoided going down there. My brother and I headed down there the day they said this was it, but all last week I avoided it. I didn’t think I was strong enough. The evidence came when I walked into the room for the first time that Saturday and saw grandpa sedated and groaning in pain. I cried. I felt weak. That’s why I avoided it. I left it up to my mother and grandmother. I couldn’t be any help to them if I was hysterical.
Until my dad called me Friday and asked me to come down this past Saturday to give my mom a break. I couldn’t say no. So I went. I sat with my grandma, who went from telling stories from the past with her pastor to silently crying. I was determined to not cry this time. I refused. It wouldn’t do any good for my grandma if I cried. So I didn’t. Any time I thought about crying, I would start chanting “Tommy Boy” repeatedly under my breath. I would think of the funniest scenes so I wouldn’t cry. It worked, and I was better able to handle being there, holding my grandpa’s hand when he’s obviously dreaming and motioning with his arms.
I went down there again last night. I had to take my grandma home, and I watched her smooth back his hair and tell him she loved him. I walked her into her house, which already has a different aura about it. I went back to the hospital. I told my grandpa how grandma always has to give me directions, despite the fact I grew up here. My mom who was sitting there laughed. I think he can still hear us, which is why I told him. I wanted him to say something about that crazy Betty. But he didn’t. And I know he won’t.
I just wait for the phone call, just like my mom does.