I still don’t have answers and that’s taking a toll on me. I spent a few hours in Dutchtown nursing home with my grandmother before she passed away this weekend. I sat in the room and stared at the floral wallpaper. You could practically feel the suffering in the air. She was unresponsive so I sat quietly next to my grandfather as he gazed upon her. Every once in a while she would gasp and I worried that she would pass while I was with her. I’ve never really recovered from the first death I experienced. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from the pain I feel for my grandfather. There’s no question that he loves her fiercely. Every twenty-five minutes or so, he’d break down and sob, saying things like, “I can’t take this,” or more alarmingly, “I want to blow my brains out.”
I understand all too well what it’s like to lose the one thing in life that keeps you from going mad. I know what it’s like to see the cold blue clear of morning each and every day because sleep never comes. I’m afraid that my grandfather will succumb to the pain, in fact, most of my family is afraid for him. I remember thinking to myself that I didn’t want to be stuck on this planet without the person I had lost.
I was talking with a friend about the funeral yesterday. He tried hard to console me.
“God’s got her now, she’s alright,” he told me.
“You know,” I said. “Everyone’s always going on about God. After all this time, you think he’d let that whole grudge thing go and cut human beings a break.”
My friend just sighed.
I don’t want to be bitter.