This week has been spent in a slow burn. My father-in-law
Henry has not been with us in any real sense of the word since Monday, when he
was taken to the hospital and Oscar received a distraught call from his sister,
after which he made his way over there. We assumed Henry would cross over
by the next day, but it didn't happen that way. He was switched over to
comfort care and sedation on Tuesday, and on Wednesday got moved to a nursing
home near Yoli's house.
Oscar had said his
goodbyes before leaving on Tuesday. He had spent the day carrying his dad
on a couple of occasions - like a baby, he said - since Henry would get
disoriented and want to move around, his frailty however not allowing him to do
so. Oscar prayed over his dad, said whatever else he needed to say to
him, thanked him once again for raising him. There was no sense - Oscar
said - to stick around and watch his dad essentially sleeping, yet really just
waiting for his body to die.
I've noticed that
I've been quite particular about my choice of euphemism regarding Henry's
passing. It's not so much on purpose as it is based on what feels natural.
The phrase "crossing over" has stuck with me very strongly.
I really see it that way - that upon death, our soul (that which in
essence is what we call "I") merely leaves this body behind and
continues on in the spiritual realm. The details may not be clear, but
the fact is unquestionable in my mind.
Henry's youngest
son, Elliott, was able to spend the day with his non-responsive father before
he passed. I was glad to hear it, though I'm not sure how big of a
consolation it was for Elliott, unable to get a response from his dad anymore.
Still, Henry knew he was there, and Elliott can feel reassured by that.
Elliott's wife
came by as Oscar was leaving. Oscar's mom didn't want to see her - and
who could blame her - but Yoli agreed to let her see Henry. Apparently
she had played a part in convincing Henry to let Oscar bring him up to
Virginia, where he would spend the last year of his life among his children.
That had to count for something.
Last night -
Thursday - Elliott called to tell Oscar that the medical personnel were saying
the time is soon upon us. Of course, that is a vague and relative term,
for we had been waiting in one sense since Monday, and in another sense for a
couple of months. Still, Oscar and I decided to make plans to spend the
weekend near family, anticipating Henry's imminent passing.
I thought about
how strange it was that a nursing home would have visiting hours. After
all, this automatically took the choice away from the family and the person
preparing to cross over, regarding whether or not he would want to be surrounded
by loved ones. So often I hear people regret not being able to make it to
the hospital where their loved one passes on before they get there. Here
though, the family is left to anticipate a call each morning, should their
loved one pass during the night.
I thought about my
great-grandmother, the first whose death I somewhat witnessed. I
technically missed the actual moment of her crossing over, but I was with her
just minutes before and again just minutes later. She crossed over in her
own home, with her daughter by her side. There was comfort in that - not
just for us, but I imagine for her as well. It seems that everyone should
be allowed the privilege of crossing over in their own home, surrounded by
loved ones, if at all possible.
We weren't sure if
we'd still see Henry alive or not. Either way, Oscar had made his peace
and said his goodbyes. As for me, I still regretted that Natalia hadn't
been able to show more affection for her Abuelo, but at this point, it didn't
really matter much anyway, except maybe to me.
This morning,
before the sun was up, I awoke to Natalia sleep nursing on my left, and Oscar
kneeling by the bed on my right, whispering that "it's time". I
slowly remembered the gravity of the day and fought hard with my sleep idol in
order to get out of bed. I assumed Oscar just wanted to get an early
start on the day, but after I got up, I realized that Henry was gone.
"He's gone. My dad is gone." We hugged quietly, and
I remembered the other times we hugged this way. When my dad had his
accident and was in an induced coma. When we learned of our severe
infertility. When my best friend took her own life.
Oscar pointed out
in that moment, that this is why married people live longer, because they have
someone to comfort them in times of need. I felt strangely closer to him,
closer than I have since Natalia became my primary occupation. And over
these past few months and especially the last week, I didn't feel so much as a
stranger in my in-law family. I was grieving right along with them.
I knew Henry, I liked Henry, and I had so wished for Natalia to grow up
knowing him. This last point was probably the loss I'm grieving the most.
After my dad’s accident, his brain injury resulted in aphasia, an inability to
express himself properly with words. As Natalia began to say her first
words, I became self-conscious about how this may make my dad feel. And I
thought of her other grandfather, how she would be able to have regular
conversations with him. And now, that possibility is gone.
We packed our two
dogs, booked a hotel for the weekend, and headed out - earlier than Natalia and
I usually wake up for the day. We drove straight to the funeral home,
where they were holding Henry's body. Apparently, they were just waiting
for us to come by and see him one last time and say goodbye.
He didn't look
much different from the last time I saw him, five days earlier. He was on
a stretcher, covered to his neck with a dark green blanket, wearing a navy blue
knit hat. His eyes and his mouth were closed. In that regard, he
actually looked more peaceful and less scary than the last time I saw him
sleeping in his hotel room in Virginia Beach. That day, his mouth had
been ajar, and it looked like he had exactly every other of his teeth.
I brought Natalia
in on my arm, trying to make sense of the situation for a child too young to
even remember what's happening. Oscar and Yoli had a few moments of
saying goodbye. Natalia and I gave Yoli a hug, then I caught myself
saying that Abuelo was asleep and quickly searching for a way to qualify that
so that she didn't associate regular sleep with such finality. Luckily at
her age, she isn't going to make that leap. But I added that Abuelo went
to be with Jesus. Yoli and Oscar exchanged a few words, to which Natalia
shushed them, putting her index finger to her lips. "Abuelo
sleep" she said. They smiled and Oscar repeated what I had just told
her - that Abuelo is now with Jesus.
Strange as it may
sound, I swear it appeared that Natalia teared up and started wiping her eyes.
It was a quiet kind of crying that a sad adult would do, not the
tantrum-style wailing I was used to hearing from her. I did notice an
eyelash coming out of her right eye, so perhaps that was the culprit. But
the timing was nonetheless ominous.
Natalia and I
circled around the large room where Henry lay on his stretcher. She
knocked on the door we came in, trying to leave. We went back one final
time to see him, and as I held her up, she repeated after me, "bye
Abuelo" (waving her left hand). Then, putting both hands to her
chest per the ASL sign for love she whispered after me, "I love"
(dropping the "you" as is her habit).
A little later, in
the car, she recalled the events of the morning. "Abuelo nie placze.
Abuelo cama sleep" (Grandpa not crying. Grandpa bed sleep).
And she added, "Jesus" (pronounced the Spanish way, with an
initial "h" sound and the accent on the "u".)
It's strange to be
here. There will be no funeral. Henry requested that he be
cremated, and his ashes will be available to the family in about a week.
We are planning on taking a trip down to Florida around February/March,
so that we can spread his ashes at the park where he and his kids hung out
growing up, per his request.
I'm used to there
being some official ceremony surrounding death, and perhaps the spreading of
his ashes will feel that way to me. But for now, it's as if his death has
been a sad but natural part of life. It's strangely comforting, actually, since
the last funeral I went to - one of two in my life - was of my best friend, who
had taken her own life. Rachel's death was unexpected and tragic and it
angered me. I was upset with her for leaving me on purpose, and all the
religious speak that I not only bought into but perpetrated by way of my eulogy
ignored the fact that if she truly trusted God's plan for her life, she
wouldn't have taken matters into her own hands the way she did.
But Henry's
death... has been different. We all knew it was coming. He was at
peace about it, but he didn't seek it out. He was simply content with the
life that was given him, and was happy to be going home to his Maker. I
guess it makes no sense to call one death tragic and not another death.
All death is tragic. But Henry's death hasn't angered me.
Saddened, of course, but not angered. Perhaps others are angry not
so much with Henry as with God, but this is a normal human reaction to any death,
any event period, that doesn't live up to our expectations. We
acknowledge that death is inevitable, but we have an idea of when that
inevitability is the most tolerable (at a very old age, in one's sleep) and are
quick to blame God for not letting everyone die this kind of death.
Going forward, I
hope to see us all, especially Henry's family, rally around God the way they
rallied around Henry in these last days and weeks and months of his life.
Priorities were rearranged. Pennies were not counted. Grudges
were laid aside. Time was spent on what matters most. What a
beautiful reminder for every day of our lives! What a privilege it has
been, albeit a sad and difficult one to bare, to receive advanced notice of
Henry's passing. I've often thought that anticipation is the worst, but
really, it just means you can start the grieving process earlier, when you
still have a chance to make amends, so that when your loved one crosses over,
you don't have regrets and shock piled on top of your grief.
Perhaps this is
what it means to be a witness to God's love even in death. Not through
some heroic action or profound words of wisdom, but simply by being present,
and allowing the will of God to create the circumstances that have the best
chance of bringing our loved ones closer to the One we will all meet one day.
No comments:
Post a Comment