Abuelita--Leslie

Death might just be the scariest thing anyone has to endure. Dying sounds scary, however, knowing and anticipating death is even scarier. I sat confused in the hospital waiting room, where the smell of hand sanitizer, the grey walls, the faint sound of the TV, the cold hard uncomfortable leathered seats that feel like you’re sitting on a rock surrounded me. People praying, others eating, others crying, and some just staring with a lost look in their eyes making me feel even more numb than I already did. Chills ran through my body, imagining the worst as a gazillion of unanswered questions ran through my mind. I watched my family from the corner of my eye as they were huddled in a small circle conversing about my grandma’s situation and leaving me out of it, not wanting to let me know what they’re talking about. I felt absolutely isolated, I didn’t know what to do and what to think or how to react. A couple of hours passed when I watched the doctor walk up to my family. He looked down, he sighed, and he looked back up again. Why is he taking so long to say what he needed to say? He looked sorry. His mouth formed words but for some reason I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Everything was in slow motion as I watched the disgruntled looks on my family members faces, I watched as my grandpa broke down and ran to the elevator and threw himself on the ground. He angrily punched the floor and he looked up at the ceiling sobbing and screaming. My aunt took me to the cafeteria, I couldn’t speak because I was confused and in shock. When we went home my parents told me everything was fine but they lied. The doctors told everyone that there was nothing left to do, he couldn’t help my grandma. He asked everyone if they wanted him to take her off life support, they said no. I had to find out by eavesdropping on my mom’s phone call. Each time a word flew out of her mouth I felt like a part of me was slowly dying. Today, she has ALS and has been in the hospital for four years, she can’t leave. There is no cure whatsoever. Her nerves are slowly shutting, she can’t move her body anymore. She can’t talk and I would give up anything to hear her laugh again. She relies on a little machine to keep her alive, her life depends on technology. My grandma is my best friend and the fact that I can’t even remember what her voice sounds like pains me. A part of me is mad at my parents even after all of these years for keeping me in the dark. Another part of me is angry that I didn’t enjoy my time with her more, that I didn’t tell her I loved her more often, or that I never took the signs seriously. I should’ve listened when she said that she couldn’t feel her hands or when she would randomly fall because her legs would give up on her. My parents visit her every day for hours. I can’t bring myself to go though, of course I do visit her and I love seeing her but it hurts to see her like that. I’m not able to converse with her, she can’t eat, she can’t move, but her brain works perfectly fine. Visiting her makes all of this seem much more real and I don’t want it to. I just wish I could water her garden with her again and watch telenovelas together.