Gone

Driving home after school, I watched silently from the passenger seat as tears started rolling down my mother’s cheeks. What I gathered from her between the sobs wracking her shoulders as she tried to concentrate on driving was depressing news indeed. Grandma was dying.

I’d already known that her health was slowly being drained away from her, and had since last summer; almost a year ago. That was when visits to the doctor became more frequent, and my parents came home sombre-faced. Little by little, the truth was revealed, making me half-wish that I would still be considered too young to understand, and not given the burden of that knowledge. For the first time, I realized I wasn’t being treated as just another child of the family. I didn’t particularly like it. Faced with the limited knowledge I had been given of what would happen, I had no idea how to deal with it. No one had ever thrown a ball shaped quite like this at me before. Of course, I’d read books and watched movies about terminal cancer victims, but never had I imagined anything like it would happen upon someone living in my own house. It was the difference between watching on the sidelines and actually playing in the game.

The initial “curable” infliction had worsened in condition over time, and the surgery which I’d thought would bring about great change only brought the cancer cells down a notch. That notch was enough to keep Grandma fairly healthy past the six month period doctors had predicted. Whether it was by keeping a careful eye on her health or by her sheer will to live, she lasted six months even longer than the expected life span, totalling over a year. Aunts and uncles had flown in from all over for the surgery, though what they planned to do for their mother while the surgeons did their jobs is still a mystery to me. As for me, I’d gone to school, keeping sentry on my watch all day, sitting at lunch with the knowledge that the only grandparent that had ever been in my life was being taken into the surgery room. I spent my afternoon classes chewing on my lip and debating if ‘having butterflies in your stomach’ was truly just a figure of speech. When the final bell rang, I approached my dad’s car apprehensively, unsure of what I was going to hear. A smile of relief was on his face, however, and I relaxed. Grandma’s surgery had gone successfully, with little complications, and I hoped that everything would veer back towards normalcy.

For a little while, at least, that wish was granted. When the matriarch of my large family was released from the hospital, my fear retreated back into its shell, and relatives returned to their homes. My parents monitored Grandma vigilantly, trying to commission me into checking up on her when they were at work. I was resentful at being given another responsibility, having to watch over her when she was supposed to supervise my brother and me. Thus, I shirked the duty whenever I wasn’t reminded, and what I did do was done reluctantly. As my regular schedule had returned, my mind associated the return to a standard lifestyle with my grandmother’s health reverting back to normal. I’d assumed that the crisis was over. I was wrong.

I first noticed something was changing when my parents were more insistent in urging me to go upstairs to ask Grandma how she was feeling, and everyday duties became increasingly difficult for her to accomplish. At first, I attributed it to old age. As time went by, however, I realized that she wasn’t choosing not to cook. My strong-willed grandmother had always excelled at cooking, and everyone loved her trademark dishes. The woman who had previously made a point to take a walk around the neighbourhood for exercise every morning found herself sitting more and more; the longer periods of time she had to spend standing to cook tired her. Grandma, who had always been determined to maintain her health, was losing it.

Gradually, ever so gradually, she began to do less and less around the house. Walking soon became a chore for her, and I was instructed to look in on Grandma more often, to see if she wanted anything. I was to get her tea and hot water, wash all the dishes, massage her back, and keep an eye on my younger sibling. A chair and table were set up downstairs especially for her so she wouldn’t have to climb the stairs to get to the television, where she now spent the majority of her day. The less she accomplished, the more responsibility fell upon my mother’s shoulders. Not only was I given more responsibilities, but unbeknownst to me, it would soon become apparent how much Grandma depended on my mother. Mom was the one Grandma always called first. Mom was the one she had chosen to live with. Mom was the one who came home from work, only to face more work. Mom was starting to crack under the stress of taking care of her own mother. I was called upon to remain nearby when Grandma took naps, to bring her relief to the hacking coughs that now plagued her existence. I watched her go from soft foods to even softer foods, due to the pain in her mouth. She had been given a walker, a contraption which she was loath to use until absolutely necessary, and a nurse came by once every seven days to help her bathe, monitor her wellbeing, and other such things. For a few hours each week, Mom’s load was lightened. For the rest of the week, however, Grandma was Mom’s beloved, yet at the same time, the bane of her life. Days continued in such a fashion for a while, until one day, everything changed.

Turning the key in the lock, I was surprised to hear voices on the other side of the door. They weren’t voices emitted from the TV, but rather, the worried voices of various cousins, aunts and uncles who lived in the area. An ambulance was on the way. What I gathered from the crowd in the living room was this: Grandma had a fever, very much a danger with her weakened immune system, and no one had noticed until just now. She had spent the day with an aunt, who, unlike my mother, hadn’t spent her days as a trained nurse before immigration, and consequently, Grandma’s fevered state had elevated through the day, undetected. By the time any sign of abnormalities were noted, it was too late to move her through means of our own. While more cousins arrived at the door who, like I, still in my uniform, had just been released from school, urgent telephone calls were made to allow her admittance to a hospital.

We of the youngest generation sat in an out-of-the-way corner, next to the tank of goldfish. Save for the quiet jokes about goldfish we weren’t truly concerned about, an unusual silence reigned among us. Our fears were left unspoken, as if hearing the harsh reality of words we were thinking would break the spell holding Grandma afloat. The object of our anxiety was on the floor below us, awaiting the aid of professionals. It was not until the siren of the ambulance could be heard that the stillness of what had become my living room was disrupted. An uncle jumped up, briskly pacing on the sidewalk, on the lookout for that red and white van.

With the speed and efficiency demanded of those trained to respond to emergencies, the paramedics were led downstairs. The parting of the Red Sea that had occurred when they entered was quickly dispersed, and a few relatives followed them downwards. A murmur of conversation wormed its way around the room, as all speculated what was happening below us. Glances were exchanged, though only those most involved with Grandma’s handling had ventured past the stairs.

A brief period of time elapsed. I noticed a very slight draft coming through, and I realized that the back door on the stairs had been opened. It was then I stood to watch as my grandmother was transferred to a stretcher, all the while having blankets and jackets tucked around her now-frail body as defence against the cold. I gave a tiny wave, then a bigger one, hoping she might have seen it and taken even the slightest ounce of comfort from her extensive support system.

She spent weeks in the white-washed room of the hospice, until they could no longer house her. At that point, she was moved into a seniors’ home. The task of taking care of her was too much to unload on one person, as my mother had been doing all along. Just because she was no longer at a daughter’s house did not mean that there were less visitors. Grandma was far from neglected. In reality, she was visited far more than she had been while presiding at my house. I suppose that the pretext for her remaining at the house was that she was still able to function well enough to do so. By being moved into a seniors’ home, however, more members of the family were forced to admit to themselves the seriousness of her condition. Only at night was her bedside left unattended; Grandma was deathly afraid of being forgotten and abandoned. Even before the fever struck, either my brother or I was to spend our time downstairs with her, if only to complete our homework.

Day by day, bodily functions became increasingly painful and complicated. It now took a great deal of her strength to sit up in bed, and it would content her to hold our hands as we talked. Over the course of two months, my schedule included a daily visit to the seniors’ home, which I soon accepted as one of the normalities of life. I watched as Grandma grew weaker; her emaciated limbs frightened me. The growing yellowness in her skin did not boast of health, and the way her skin hung from her frame was heart-breaking. As a combined result of being in too much pain to eat and the cancer cells which were draining the nourishment out of her, Grandma’s weight loss only made her more vulnerable. While in the earlier stages of illness, she’d refused to be fed. Now she had no other option than to be spoon-fed the softest of foods and liquids. By this point, talking was almost impossible for Grandma. Relatives talked around her, believing that, though incapable of responding, her ears worked perfectly fine.

The last time I saw her breathing, I was calling those willing to leave their vigil to lunch. Mom had instructed me to tell Grandma that we’d be back shortly. The only problem with that was that she’d fallen asleep, and no one wanted to disturb her, so the customary kiss and reassurance was forgone, and I merely left, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time. But by the time I flew out of bed the next morning, she was gone.

Standing amidst unrestrained sobs and tear-stained cheeks, I stayed dry-eyed and uncomfortable, rubbing my mother’s back. I had been mentally preparing myself for this very event for months, and now that the moment had arrived, I resolved to keep a calm countenance in a room that had lost it. Even in this situation, there was something in me that refused to show weakness, for all it made me feel hard-hearted and emotionally retarded.

Gone was the head of our family. Gone was the woman who’d raised so many, from her own children to her children’s offspring. Gone was the woman who stayed home with me every day while my parents worked. Gone was the woman whose dishes were the highlight of family dinners. Gone was the woman who had played the role of mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother to us all. But also gone was the pain this woman had endured for months on end. Gone were the cancer cells that ate her up from the inside. Gone were the endless forays in and out of hospitals. Grandma was gone, yes, but gone to a place without pain, and for that, I am content.