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I�m standing next to my grandfather�s hospital bed. His heaving chest,
bronzed from years of working on the hot Texas highways, with its
delicate wisps of wiry gray hair, peeks out from beneath the hospital
gown that�s barely snapped onto his bony left shoulder. A shoulder now
paralyzed from the stroke he had around 8:30 this morning. His right
hand rests in my right hand and I can feel every labored breath.
I�m standing there wishing he�d just open his eyes. Not that he could
see me anyway since he�s been legally blind for years, but I long to
look into those steel blue eyes of his and see him, not this body
covered with tubes and wires hooked to the monochrome monitor high above
his bed, seemingly the only proof he�s still with us. My eyes survey
this evidence of my grandfather�s delicate mortality and I inwardly
curse it for reminding me of all the times I didn�t visit or call, all
the times I didn�t send birthday cards or Valentines, all the times I
didn�t convey to him how much he means to me.
I don�t remember what the nurse said to him or what he answered, but I
do remember the conscious thought of �He just cracked a joke.� I
immediately heard myself say out-loud, �Did he just crack a joke?� My
grandfather, who had a stroke and is paralyzed on his left side, and
cannot lift his head just cracked a joke. And then he cracks another
one.
All of a sudden, I see him in another time. I�m sitting in my
grandmother�s burgundy recliner next to his dark chocolate brown one
watching television when without warning he reaches over and gooses me,
scaring me half to death and making me squeal with laughter all in the
same second. This memory of a time when I could never imagined the day
would come when he wouldn�t be there in my life, making me laugh by
tickling me till I thought I would wet my pants.
Then he squeezes my hand, an involuntary grasp on life, a silent message
to me that �I�m still here, Tina. For this moment, I�m still here.�
It�s invisible to the others standing in his room who are not saying a
word for fear of it being the one to betray their unspoken question of
�Will this be his last breath?� My first thought is that he might not
have known I was even there or it was just a reflexive action from a
body that couldn�t remember what it was supposed to do since 8:30 this
morning. I feel the words, �He just squeezed my hand� forming on the
tip of my tongue, about to leave my partially opened mouth when I stop
them from escaping at the last second. I hold them there, seeing the
significance of the moment when my precious grandfather told me alone,
in a room full of people waiting for him to die as they prayed without
faith for him to live, that he was still here. I instead hide our
secret in my heart of hearts and smile with gratitude at the honor he
has bestowed upon me when I had held his hand in mine and felt his
fragile grip. I then knew that moment, that grasp, was a gift given to
just me.
Before I leave, I say, �I love you, Grandpa,� maybe for the last time.
Because I�ve known and loved this man my whole life and I�ve been loved
by him since he found out about me, I stand there, waiting, with bated
breath, for some sign of recognition of those three words from his
forever altered brain. I focus intently on his stubbled chin and thin
pale lips until my begging ears hear some unintelligible utterances that
sound crystal clear to my soul, �I love you, too.�
I walked with the others to the elevator, thanking my Heavenly Father
for the gift of the hearing my grandfather�s sense of humor fight
against the heartbreaking betrayal of his worn-out body, for that
unspoken communication between us, and moreover for the moment when,
even without seeing those beautiful eyes, I knew he saw me, he knew I
heard him, and we both knew we�d be okay whatever would happen.
2000 �Iris Laureate
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2000 �Iris Laureate-all poetry copywrighted
1999 � Sites by Starr
Came to read poetry