Death and Yours Truly

Twice in my life I have been present when someone I love has died. Oddly both were mothers to me and took place twenty-five years apart.

The first death was my great-grandmother, Lola B. I was nine years old and she died while I was in another room, the kitchen. I'd lived with her for over two years and while my uncle and aunt were close at hand, it was just me and her. I don't remember when we found out she was sick, I only remember the hospital trips and fights with my uncle about what needed to be done. She was 67 years old (estimated: she'd lied about her age for so long no one really knew how old she was),  had never been to a doctor's office, and didn't really see the need to go then but the stomach pains, and my uncle, finally won over her objections.

Emotional blackmail had been used to get her to agree to the chemotherapy regime; my uncle and the doctors often reminded her that she was responsible for setting an example for me and I frequently attended the therapy sessions armed with books for coloring and reading. The nurses were sweet; the old lady, ornery as hell and very rarely agreeable; and me...well, I was eight and the drive into Houston from La Porte was exciting and interesting since we did not go there often. I still remember how to get to the hospital complex from our old house in La Porte.

For over a year, she'd battled stomach cancer and the hospital staff. The tumor had been reduced from a grapefruit to a quarter and she was recovering at home. I was relieved because my uncle was relieved; my aunt had decided it was okay for them to leave us alone at the house. Most days she got out of bed, made breakfast for me, and then spent the rest of the resting and watching television. On this particular day, she did not get out of bed. I went to check on her, asked if she was hungry and offered to make her some toast. I had never cooked before, never even been allowed in the kitchen without adult supervision, but she agreed that she "could eat a little something." My toast was burnt but it was my attempt to take care of her for once and she appreciated that I think. She took a bite of toast, asked for a glass of water, her pills, and, as I was leaving the room, a kiss. Mine is not a demonstrative family so this stands out in my mind. It is my last, best memory of my great-grandmother. 

When I returned, she was gone. A pill lay on her tongue and her eyes were closed. It was all very peaceful.  There was no 911 at the time but I knew what to do. I walked down to a neighbor's house, informed them that my grandmother was dead, and asked them to call my uncle. It was all chaos after that. To this day, I still can't understand why everyone around me seemed to fall apart into hysteria and tears. I knew she wouldn't have liked that, so I didn't do it.

Decisions were made around me and about me; I remember being given a choice of living with my mother or my uncle. I chose my mother. I only vaguely remember the funeral and I don't remember how to get to her gravesite but I know she's buried with "her people" and, when I was in my 20s, we buried her daughter, my maternal grandmother, next to her. I have not been back to her grave since then. 

Twenty-five years later, my mother's death was the polar opposite. 

My mother's death was abrupt and emotionally draining. After suffering a massive stroke on September 27, 2004, she was hospitalized for three days before we knew definitively what was happening and what needed to happen. She faded away from us, slipping into a comatose state. My brothers and sister and I did not let her go without a fight. We yelled commands at her to "open your eyes" or "squeeze my hand;" anything to keep her with us. When I think about this time now, my heart aches and I feel ashamed. You see, she tried. We demanded "Open your eyes!" and her eyebrows rose and fell but her lids stayed closed. We begged "Squeeze my hand" and her brow wrinkled as she gave us the weakest twinge of her fingers. I think she tried to stay with us but the damage was done and there could be no going back.

I signed the papers that would take her off the machines at 5 PM on September 29th. Most of her siblings were there; my siblings were not.

The doctor and nurses told us explicitly that she might breath on her own for 10 minutes or 10 hours; there was no way of knowing.  For thirty minutes we listened to her struggle to breathe, a sound that I wish I had never heard and which I will never forget. I had not eaten since that morning and the presence of my aunts and uncles was beginning to grate on my nerves; just as my patience was failing me, my Uncle Elgin suggested we all get something to eat. My mother's sister Jessie, a nurse, stayed behind to monitor things and Elgin's wife, Mercedes, stayed because she didn't want my mom to be alone. My mother had been the first person in our family to befriend Mercedes after she married my uncle, even though Mercedes didn't speak English and Gladys didn't speak Spanish. They had spoken on the phone every week for almost nine years.

Forty-five minutes after we left, as we were all sitting down to eat at Luby's, Mercedes called to tell us she was gone. I remember everything stopped for a split second. My uncle was the first to move, the rest of us followed. Back to the hospital, up the elevator, last goodbyes, quiet tears. My Aunt Glenda, my mother's youngest sister, quietly inspected the body as the nurse and I discussed a variety of current events with the nurse quietly reassuring me that Glenda's behavior was normal, sometimes people felt a need to touch the dead, to say goodbye physically. Finally, we left. I drove Glenda home and then went home myself, crying so hard that I eventually pulled into a shopping center parking lot because I couldn't see.

When my great-grandmother died, I had the luxury of youth and naiveté to get me through the event. Adults handled everything: told me what to do, where to go, and waited for me to react. I didn’t have a reaction then. A year later, my hair began to fall out, I had nightmares, and I started to see my great-grandmother any time I became anxious or upset. I fretted if my mother left the house after dark and wouldn’t sleep until she got back. I saw a child psychologist who reassured my mother that I was mourning and it would pass. I don’t know exactly when I moved out of the grieving process and my new life normalized.

I’m still waiting for this new life to normalize.