The cat woke me up, thou I never really slept. Big Kitty was locked in the other room and doing his small, 'hear me' talk. Five o'clock came early, or late, I didn't sleep, so I think late. I stopped by an old music buddy's house after class to watch the Monday Night Football game, mostly we talked and drank beer. I needed to get up to help get my grandma to the hospital.
Cold and black out. When we got to the Carriage House, I waited in the hall. A young, pear-shaped blonde almost ran me over with an oxygen tank. I startled her, too early to muster anything like, "I'm sorry," just an exhaled tone.
I went out to move the truck to the door and have a smoke. I passed the group of ancient females waiting for meds and looking like the nurses' station was a camp fire. One said something to me, I stopped, "Pardon?", she just laughed and said no more.
Gramma looked like an old balloon. I use to think she was the syrup lady, Aunt Jemima. She'd get dark in the summer sun, scarf tied in her hair, pouring sweat. She was devoid of even salvia, and didn't say a word to me.
I sat in the back on the ride over. The date came to mind as I thought this will be her last day, though I've had this thought before .
The Doctor was late. I sat in a waiting room. Drinking sugar with some coffee on top, I small talked about the sniper with a large man. He mostly did that paranoid hiccupping sleep. He seemed kind, and worried. Mom came in to get me. Gramma had stopped breathing.
She was breathing when I walked in and sat near the cold window. Mom knew the nurse, and my sis had dated her son. His name is Mark Hall, and he use to work at Hallmark. Normally, I'd laugh at that.
As the other nurses talked about power of attorney to my Mom, I was lost. I could feel those fingers crawling out of my hung-over belly, up into my throat, and pushing preludes to my tear ducts. Mom asked if I wanted to go eat something. I went to have a smoke.
The elevator was messing with me, as I stood in front of it, and across from the chapel. I waited it out painfully. The pain wasn't because she was going to die, it was because she might not.
I made it into the truck for a breath of fresh smoke. I felt like the tip of my finger as I touched the radio search button, fifteen stations, fifteen nanoseconds of fifteen commercials. The thought of being painted in the same color as my conscience back-drop crossed my mind. I was a little surprised I didn't hear The Temptations' song "Papa Was a Rolling Stone" just for the first line.
Gramma was in to get a colectomy. The doc said it would kill her. The prep orders were botched for weeks and Mom vented to my deaf ears as we ate hospital eggs and harsh browns. I really wasn't hung-over, it's just the closest feeling I can compare it to. Similar to a joke I made up before, a cup full of Taoist pride, empty.
Back in the room I watched her vitals ebb and flow on the monitor. Her mouth so open, lips so purple-blue, so frail. I thought of my grandpa, her soul mate, and the pillow. But then the finger would cut off my air just as fast. One of the nurses had on an old nursing bonnet. It said, "Mercy".
I sit now and battle a 'verge'. I'm not even sure why. I won't be more or less of anything either way.
This was written two weeks ago, My grandma died yesterday.
�2003 Daniel J Harris