English 215w

An only child lacks many things while growing up through companionship is perhaps the most important. While children with siblings usually have someone to talk to an only child has only their parents, which can be quite frustrating. While living on the mainland, I had an older sister and brother, but after our parents' divorce, my siblings went to live with their biological mother, while my biological mother and I moved to Hawaii. At such a young age, the prospect of moving brought only thoughts of making new friends and new surroundings.
As summer arrived and I was going to enter the second grade, I was sent to summer fun to "Expand my horizons and to meet new people." By the second week, I had dropped out and began tagging along behind my grandfather when he went to 'work' each day. I use the term work very loosely however, since the extent of his day would be snacking on midmorning danish then heading off downtown to drop off some job bids. During the day, I would sit in the lavish conference room with twelve leather swivel chairs, a enormous Koa table and most importantly, a TV and VCR.
Each summer passed by very quickly, but perhaps the best summer was when Toys 'R' Us opened at Pearlridge. My grandfather and I would go down to the gigantic toy store on a daily basis, and every day I left with some form of action figure or dress up dolly. Though the reasons for my enjoying the summer had quite a bit to do with the daily excursions to the toy store and to play miniature golf, the main reason was we had become very close and he soon knew me better than my own mother. It seemed like we could communicate with just a look, and people often commented how much I look like him.
Since my mother worked, everyday after school I would go to A+ until grandpa picked me up. The time he picked me up always varied, it depended on what our daily activity was. By the time I was ten, my grandpa had become like the father and siblings I was missing. He knew me better than anyone did and I often told people how I planned on taking over the family business, which he had founded many years ago.
Over the years, my relationship with my grandfather blossomed. I thought frequently that it was almost impossible for us to become closer, and everyday I seemed to prove myself wrong. While in the fifth grade, one lazy Tuesday I found it strange that I had stayed at A+ for so long. The activity was not particularly interesting and my grandpa knew I wanted to be picked up decently early, but he never came. At 5:30 PM when A+ was over, my mother, having come straight home after work, then finding no one home, came to A+ to pick me up. Upon arriving home, my mother and I had dinner alone, as it was common for my grandmother not to arrive home until after dark.
Time passed very slowly, I did not know where my grandpa was, and it was very unusual for him not to telephone. Finally, the telephone rang about 8:00 PM. My mother was in the shower and so I answered the ringing telephone, unaware that a simple call would forever change my life. My grandmother was on the other end of the line, asking for my mother. I told her that mom was busy, "She wen' go botcha." I distinctly remember telling her. I could almost hear the tension through the telephone line, and my grandmother snapped at me, telling me to get my mother immediately.
I did as I was told much to the dislike of my soaking wet mother. After mere moments on the telephone, my mom began getting ready and she looked towards me. "Grandpa was in an accident, he's in the hospital." My first reaction was that he had had a minor fender bender, had been rear-ended and probably had a concussion since he refused to wear his seatbelt. "That'll teach him not to wear his belt." I thought while I gathered my clothes and changed out of my pajamas.
Not twenty minutes later I followed my mother through the halls of Kuakini Medical Center, a placed I was very familiar with as my grandpa and I had frequently visited his mother before she passed away. As a child of 10, I could easily navigate my way though the twisting halls better than a second year intern. I quietly toddled along after her, my GameBoy in one hand and my other hand tightly clenched into a white knuckled fist. I remember thinking it odd, why was mom hurrying to the back of the hospital. That is where the Emergency Room was.
Once we walked through the sliding glass doors, which lead outside to the ambulance dock, my grandmother stood with my aunty and uncle, their eyes puffy and red while their faces showed distinct signs of bad news. I sat patiently on a stone wall near them, my GameBoy forgotten in my lap as I hugged my mother, "Momma, what's wrong with Grandpa?" A shrug was my only reply.
My grandmother did her best to explain to my mother what had happened as I made a futile attempt to understand what she was saying, "Daie parking lotfiremenblood clotbrainsurgery" none of it made any sense. I did not know what to think everything seemed so fuzzy. I tried desperately to grasp at what little I understood as my mother was reduced tears in my arms.
Finally a doctor, a solemn man of middle age walked out of the doors into the cool night where my family waited and briefly told my grandmother that we could go see my grandfather for a moment, two at a time before he was prepped for his 'first surgery' which would be that night. My grandmother went first, followed by my aunty and uncle. My mother hesitated to allow me into the Emergency Room, as she knew I was unaware of what to expect. I did not care what was behind the thick security laden walls and heavy iron door; I wanted to see my grandpa. H e was my buddy.
Walking through the security door, which was kept locked and could only be opened when someone from the inside buzzes you in, the pungent odor of hospital stung my nostrils. I still remember the beeping sound and horrific gasping the ventilators made. Walking a few feet, I turned to look behind a curtained area. The sight before me was like nothing I had ever seen. There my grandpa lay, unconscious with tubes protruding from his nose and mouth. Many screens flashed different numbers and wiggly lines kept bouncing across the screen. His mouth half agape, I turned and ran out of the room. I could not believe what was happening. How could my grandpa, MY GRANDPA have something so horrible done to him. He was a good person, a sweet man and I knew I was not the only person who thought he was the best man alive.
The next few days passed in a blur, weather or not I went to school, I do not exactly remember. However, I do know that once I began to attend class, I spontaneously began crying in more than once. I did not understand how anyone, let along my grandpa could be perfectly fine in the morning, and by that night be unconscious in a hospital bed. After his first surgery, my grandpa entered a catatonic state. He had slipped into a coma, and it was more likely that he would recover the sooner he came out of the coma. I had a hard time dealing with what I saw in his room and most of the time I would sit in the waiting room and watch TV. The entire time grandpa was in the Intensive Care Unit I went to visit him once when he was first placed there, about three days after his first surgery. I was so scared to see him lying helpless in a dark room with no sunlight. I began to worry that he would miss all of his plants at home, which he cared for lovingly each day. I never went back into the awful room, but guilt clouded my soul at the thought of him just lying there sad and alone because I, of all people refused to visit him.
Days turned into weeks and weeks to months. Everyday after dinner, which we now ate at 4:00 PM, we would drive to the hospital. He was finally moved out of ICU and into a 'regular' hospital room. I took this as a good sign that he was getting better. I began imagining how it would be when he came home. We might have to add a ramp like when his sister fell ill, but at least he would be home. This was when we began to see tiny changes; he would move his toes and wiggle his fingers. If asked he could squeeze our hand. His room was at the end of a very long hall, and over the months, I developed a phobia of needles and hospitals. I could not stand to be in a hospital room without wanting to cry, and I only went to see grandpa twice when he was moved to his 'regular' room. On my 11th birthday, I celebrated in the hospital waiting room alone, while the rest of my family was in grandpa's room, caring for him.
The months passed slowly and we soon learned that the minimal responses we were seeing were the most we were going to get from him, He was then moved into Hale Pu Mau Mau..."the old futs home" as grandpa had called it. The day I learned he was moving out of the hospital, I did not understand why, he wasn't and old fuddy-duddy, he was grandpa!
Various events followed, such as his bought with shingles, very painful sores that resemble chicken pox, and the tracheotomy tube they changed every so often, which was a hole cut into his throat with a tiny plastic tube stuck into the hole. I still remember the first time he began 'coughing' through the tube. He could not speak and his face turned bright red while he struggled to breathe. Finally, big globs of mucus flew out of the tiny tube with drops of blood turning the yellow mucus a sickening orange. I often had to leave the room when this happened, or plug my ears and close my eyes if I could not leave fast enough. Most nights I would just sit in the lounge room with the elderly occupants and watch TV while I did my homework instead of dealing with what was going on in room 203.
On February 5, 1994 at 6:12AM, my mother violently shook me awake. I looked up to the clock, then back at her, her tear stained face told me what had happened, but I refused to believe it, "Grandpa died this morning." I looked at her for a moment, a blank expression on my face before I burst into tears. I did not understand how anything like this could have happened, he was the most important thing to me in the world, and now he was gone. I spent the rest of the morning staring at the TV, though I was not actually watching what was on. Within a day funeral arrangements had been made and while my mother, grandmother, uncle and aunty were at the mortuary to pick out an urn, my aunty gave me a hug, telling me that everything will be okay, and I'll accept it soon. I burst into tears, yelling at her, "How am I suppose to get over this if everyone keeps reminding me every second of every moment what's happened? Don't you think I KNOW what has happened!?" Before running down the hallway and out of the building.
I sat numbly though the funeral in a new skirt and blouse my mother had bought me especially for the day. I thanked people as they gave me their condolences, and hugged over a thousand people who had come to tell my grandpa goodbye. I cried through the entire service, all while cursing the priest, who kept saying my grandpa's middle name wrong. I felt like screaming and yelling at him to say it right. Then, by the time it was over, I realized no one had even considered that I might want to speak. I sat patiently, knowing that my grandmother would sooner disown me than allow me to make a public spectacle so I sat obediently until everyone had filtered out of the hall. No one paid me any mind during the entire process; from the moment I found out he had died until the placement of the urn, when I burst into hysterics and ran from the hall. I had wanted to place the urn into the niche, but no one would listen to an 11 year-old-girl. I was not a person who had just lost her grandfather, best friend, and confidant. I was another spectator. Many times that day, my grandmother had commented to various people, "at least we were expecting it, it makes it a little easier." However, I was screaming inside, "I DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS COMING I KNEW HIM BETTER THAN ANYONE AND NO ONE CARED ENOUGH TO TELL ME!!!" I finally snapped at someone poor random person who had come over to me to wish me well and told me that it was good that I was prepared for his death.
Now almost seven years after his death and eight years after he was first admitted into the hospital, I realize how deranged I was that year. I was literally crazy and I could not rationalize things calmly. The loss of my grandpa helped me see how much you have to loose every single day when you wake up each morning and begin your day. Every day is the most precious gift ever, and it should not be taken for granted. My grandpa enjoyed life and never regretted his choices, there is no time in life to have regrets and to worry, one must embrace the world for what it is and jump into it, treasuring every moment of it.
My best friend in the entire world was ripped out of my heart in one swift blow. I'm thankful that I said goodbye to him that night before leaving the hospital, however I regret not spending more time with him while he was in the hospital. Of course I also realize that I was very young, perhaps to young to deal with something so traumatic, and there was perhaps no way I could have been prepared properly. Nonetheless, I lost my best friend, and I also lost a huge part of my heart and soul that year and perhaps I will never fully recover from something so traumatic. I myself am astounded that I survived through my grandpa's death, I was alive for the gift of his life, and the pain of his death, but I will live on to keep his memory alive forever. My grandpa may not be on this earth anymore, but regardless he will live on.