It's Been A Year

A year ago, we had just got home from a long day at the hospital in Santa Barbara, and we got a call that we needed to come back. She was on the verge. I was exhausted from commuting an hour each way to school, then an hour each way to the hospital--in different directions. Dad was too shaken up do drive, and it was too dark for him to see. So Kat drove us. Grandma stayed home; I think it was all she could do just to exist after everything she'd been through. And now this.

We piled in the Neon my Grandma had bought (she had given it to me; that is, my parents bought it from her for about $100) and made the familiar trip down the coast, but this time it was to say goodbye. Dad wanted the back seat. He was emotional, but not too much, yet. I was staring in the side mirror from the passenger's seat, stuck somewhere between empty exhaustion and welled up with tears. Kat drove well. I could never thank her enough for what she willingly went through. We listened to Graceland on the drive.

We spent the night in and out of her room in the ICU. I played music I had been working on for her from my IPhone. We told her about how things were at home. There were close calls and small signs of hope. At one point late in the night, the chaplain came in and prayed for her when we knew she was slipping away. That was so hard. I remember thinking that I could never cry enough for what was happening to her. We ended up sleeping the early morning hours away in a waiting room. Finally, we went in, and we had to make a choice.

It was unclear what Mom wanted. We didn't know what to do. We wanted to give her a chance to fight back, but her body was failing. We talked, we prayed. It fell on Dad's head. He walks every day with that decision. We wept bitterly and said goodbye as they disconnected the respirator. All I could think of was regret. I think I said, "I'm sorry. We love you. We'll see you again." At that moment, I kept thinking about a specific time I knew I disappointed her. Dad and Kat were crying. We watched her body loose its last breath. It didn't take long. The doctor leaned over with his stethoscope: "I'm sorry."

We cried our final tears and left so they could clean her up. I remember feeling very hungry. I was craving a cheeseburger. We went down to the hospital cafeteria, but we decided it was better to head home. We ended up stopping at an IHOP. Kat got pancakes. Dad got onion rings. I don't remember what I ate. But that didn't matter. There we were: me with my fiance and my dad who just had to watch his wife die two hours earlier. But those distinctions didn't matter that morning. We were just family; worse for the wear, and empty from loss.

A few days later, two of my sisters--her daughters--flew in to see her body, say goodbye, and spend some time with us. They were a blessing. We let them go in first. They're both in medical fields, but I'm sure that didn't change a thing. When I was in there, I felt faithless. I wanted so badly to take her hand and say "get up!" But another part of me questioned why I would want to bring her back in to this world. A smaller part feared what she would think of the decision we had made.

We left. She was cremated. Her ashes are on the mantle at Grandma's in a wooden box with a hand-carved scene on it. Dad still lives there. He tells me on the phone how hard it is to look out into that room and see her there. I'm half a country away, married with a dog and working full time.

It's been a year. On the anniversary, I listened to Graceland while I was driving to work and driving between guitar lessons. My eyes were stinging the whole time. I was exhausted at the end of the day. That's the thing about this kind of loss; sometimes it's historical fact, sometimes it's as fresh as the moment after it happened. It hurts, but she's worth the pain of remembering.