I love you too, kid

Kenzie Donald

It is 7:30am, and the only thought reverberating through my sleep-deprived mind is the sound of a heart monitor flatlining. It’s weird to wake up expecting an ending - an ending to your day, an ending to an era, an ending to a life. I knew what was happening today the moment I woke up - the night before I laid in bed for hours contemplating it. That was, after I had spent hours on my phone performing the most meaningless of tasks: drafting and deleting text messages to my girlfriend (Wren), cleaning out my several thousand unread email notifications from my inbox, and aimlessly scrolling through social media to delay the inevitability of sleep.

I tried to remain awake longer than I did. However, my attempts at distracting myself from the hollow churning in my stomach were vapid, and I gave up around 3am. My next goal was attempting to sleep, but my attempts at that were also less than successful. Time passed slower in a weird middle point between anticipation and dread - I passively observed the passage of the night by my intrusive thoughts and the time stamps that marked them. 

3:09  am - I put my phone down. It turns out, if you doom-scroll through TikTok for two hours straight, you’ll start to give yourself a headache. But the pain in my head dulls in comparison to the destabilization of essentially knowing how tomorrow will go. There are only a few ways taking someone off life support can go. I shake my head. I can’t think about this now. I try to focus on the sound of the ocean coming from my noise machine. The waves crash, the seagull caws. I stare at the back of my eyelids and pretend it’s the ocean. 

3:57am – I remember when I was little and Grandpa used to take me on walks with his dog, Fluffy, and the one time he decided we would go through a fast-food drive-through on foot. It was sweltering hot outside, much like it is now, for June in Louisiana never changes. I also despised walks as a child, much like I do now, for there are some childhood parts of me that remain unchanged. But once Grandpa had an idea, he would not let it go, and when he was determined to get a Burrito Supreme, nothing could stand in his way. Especially not his undrivable truck in the midst of repairs or the endless complaints by his granddaughter of how she’d rather stay inside and read. The people working looked at us like we were insane – they chastised us for not coming into the store instead, but nonetheless took pity on us (the woeful combination of an older gentlemen in a straw hat, a greying dog excitedly wagging its tail, and a 10-year-old blushing anxiously) and still gave us our food. I should’ve known then, I tell myself, that something wasn’t quite right. And if not then, I should’ve known when he, the lifelong mathematician, needed me to count his change. But I didn’t then, and I can’t change that now, so I roll over and count change- no- sheep to fall asleep.

4:21am – Fucking hell. Tears well up in my eyes. All I want at this point is to drift off. Sleep would offer me a brief but welcome respite from existing in my own mind. Maybe a video will help? My chest is rising and falling with increasing rapidity. If I inhale for too long, the bottom corners of my ribcage twinge and my breath hitches. Is it better to be numb or feel everything all at once? I pick up my phone, with the full intent of solely logging onto Youtube and then setting it back down. However, I can’t resist the temptation, and open my call log, thumb hovering over Wren’s name on speed dial. I never press it. She told me she had a call with her gaming friends at 10pm and then was heading to bed early, plus my family is a bit of a sore spot between the two of us anyways, so what’s the point of calling her? Even if she is by some miracle awake, my needing her would only interrupt her plans. Instead, I open Youtube and put on a video of a goofy blue puppet telling me about the dancing plague of 1518. I think that if I too was constantly surrounded by death, like the people in Strasbourg, France were, that I also would lose it. I’ve spent less than a night shrouded with the dread of impending loss and I already would do just about anything to make this feeling go away. Just put me in some little red shoes like they did to those guys and start up a band, and I will dance until my body and my thoughts give out. Hm. Red shoes. Grandpa was the one who bought me my first ever favorite pair of shoes. They were small, fire-hydrant-red cowboy boots and, in my eyes, they were beautiful. I did dance in those shoes – at my Uncle John’s first wedding. I loved Uncle John but didn’t like the woman he was marrying (neither did Grandpa). Her name was Marin, and she had a lovely face, but her nose wrinkled too much when Uncle John hugged me, and she always ignored Theo when he asked her to play with us. While Grandpa and I both showed up for Uncle John’s sake (and definitely not also because I was 7 and couldn’t go anywhere without my parents), we spent the entire evening on the dance floor to avoid talking to Marin, who was wrapped up in a wedding dress so tight that she ended up out of breath when drinking a glass of water, much less partaking in any of the dancing. I was small enough that to keep up with the dance, Grandpa let me stand on his shoes and he twirled us around and around. 

‘Round and round. 

5:05am – Somehow, I think the video helped. I am sinking slowly into the warmth of my bed and memories of twirling around a dance floor, standing on Grandpa’s feet. “I wonder if this is what it will feel like for him?”– I jolt awake with the thought, prying my eyes open to check the clock by my bedside one more time, the bright numbers glaring blurrily in the wake of my unadjusted gaze. I don’t think I want to know the answer to that question, I groggily remind myself, before pulling a blanket over my head. I am surrounded by warmth, darkness, and stagnant noise – unsure of where my worries end and my nightmares begin. 

I got to sleep for about two hours, which wasn’t optimal, but we had to leave the house in time to make it to the hospital at 8 or earlier. So here I am, in the back of my mom’s minivan, driving across town on an aptly dreary and rainy morning to meet my Uncle John and my cousin, Theo, at the hospital in which my grandfather is on hospice. Supposedly, the two of them have been on the road since 5am and should be getting there before we do. However, the phone call my mom makes reveals that they left late or some other typical bullshit excuse of theirs like that, and we beat them there. You can only hear so many reasons why people have missed things before you chalk things up to someone not giving a fuck, and I’d had too many birthdays, my mother too many family meetings, and my grandfather too many visitation days where the two of them failed to show up last minute for me to take their hasty apologies at face value anymore. So this isn’t surprising anymore, but you think the threat of death would warrant some sort of urgency to their trip. I guess not. 

In the time of their absence, a few things happen, most noticeable of these being the hospice nurse coming by to introduce herself to my mother (“It’s so nice to meet you Mrs. Dixon-White, though I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”) and to more importantly, get her to sign off on the release forms (“I am so sorry to ask, but as Mr. Dixon’s medical power of attorney…”). As we continue to wait for the arrival of my belated uncle and cousin, the hospital chaplain stops by to offer his services. I think my mother asks him what denomination of Christianity he is a part of – I’ve zoned out and purposefully withdrawn from the conversation. I do the same thing when the preacher from Grandpa’s memory care facility arrives– I’ve seen him before a handful of times, but I typically rushed out of whatever room he was in so that I couldn’t feel what I would only expect to be a scathing gaze as he took in my dyed hair, my piercings, and the small rainbow pin I kept discretely on my jacket. Nevertheless, I robotically introduce myself each time these individuals turn their pitying eyes to me, desperate for a reprieve from the brave face they wear for my mother (“My name is Everett, and Mr. Dixon is my Grandpa.”). Without fail, each time, they express condolences and search my facial expressions for weakness. I don’t let them find what they’re searching for. 

Then Uncle John and Theo are here, and my mom calls the doctor in to explain the situation to them, why Grandpa is being taken off the respirator. “Essentially, the respirator is likely the only thing keeping his body functioning at this point, and even that is starting to fail. Based on his latest bloodwork, his kidneys are beginning to shut down. Once the kidneys are down, the rest is not slow to follow.” Uncle John and Theo got the point. For the rest of us, the point has been re-emphasized. 

The chaplains both come in to do a prayer next. My uncle takes a moment alone with Grandpa. Theo declines. I don’t know whether to respect or hate him for that. My dad goes with my mom as she takes her moment alone. Both the chaplains do another prayer with her during this time. When it is my turn to have a moment alone, I do not ask the chaplain to come with me. What I have to say is to Grandpa, and Grandpa alone. As soon as I’m done, the hospice nurse has lapped back to our room. It’s time. First, she tells us, they will be removing the respirator tube from his throat.

The hospice nurse pulls the curtain to remove the tube that the doctors told us was the only reason Grandpa was still breathing. She doesn’t want us to watch it happen. “I don’t want this to be how you remember him,” she says. “You’ll still have time. The minute it’s done, I’ll pull the curtain back.”  

My world feels so small, in this corner of the room. My family stands pressed together while also doing our best to give each other space. My dad holds my mom. They’re right by the edge of the curtain, my mom as close to her dad as she can be without witnessing the removal. Uncle John stands furthest from the curtain, as if the further away he is from this happening, the less he’ll have to face it. Theo stands at a distance from his dad, staring at his phone. I don’t think it’s actually turned on, but I’m not going to call him out on that right now. As for me, I’m curled up in one of the two available chairs in the room. I don’t have anyone to hold me right now, so I hold myself. A small, morbid part of me wishes I could watch. So, I listen intently instead because that’s the second-best option I have. At first: nothing. The low murmurs of the nurses, the heart rate monitor beeping. Then: the gagging. I can’t take it, wanting to choke on the gargling sound, and am suddenly appreciative of the nurse’s consideration. 

“It’s about to happen…” I type out a text to Wren, then immediately untyped it. before becoming aware of the footsteps walking towards the curtain, and the fading of the murmurs from before. I put my phone down and get to my feet as the curtain is opened one last time.

I thought death would feel bigger than life - like a grand finale. But it doesn’t. Death is quiet. Sometimes death is 5 people in a hospital room, a hand squeeze, and an undefined stillness. The music did not stop grandly or even abruptly. The decrescendo remained anticlimactic but startling. Yet all the same, it was an ending. 

  My mom and my uncle stand on either side of my grandfather, each holding one of his hands. Theo stands next to Uncle John and I stand next to my mom, lightly touching Grandpa’s arm, which it seems Theo is too much of a coward to do. Good. At least he knows his place, if he’s going to suddenly show up after all these years of not being there. The hospice nurse stands by the door – she has to stay in case anything is to go drastically wrong, but she has practiced the art of becoming part of the room. She blends in so that our moment is private. This moment is for Grandpa, not for anyone else. 

Sure enough, the heart monitor has already started to slow. The alarm on it has started to blare at least twice now before the hospice nurse cuts it off abruptly mid-scream. She had warned us this would happen, but the heart monitor has to stay on during this process, apparently. Then-

“Did you feel that?” from Uncle John. “Did he squeeze your hand too?” directed at my mother. They both shine radiantly – the rosiness returns to mother’s cheeks and Uncle John’s shoulders don’t slump for the first time all day.  

“No! He squeezed your hand?” My mother questions, maybe he will make it after all, scribbled across her face. I think of rigor mortis. I don’t have the heart to say it. 

“That’s normal!” The nurse stops blending in for a second to chime in. “The muscles tense up to compensate for what’s happening with the rest of his body!” Or something to the likeness of that statement, for I have already tuned her out again. The heart rate monitor is slowing to the point of no return, and I instead focus on that. I stare at Grandpa closely, watching for some sign of his spirit leaving his body, for an ascendence, a moment of defined ending. 

Beep.

Beep.

Beep. 

…

Silence. 

The alarm sounds. The nurse shuts it off.

I grasp desperately at straws. This moment is too quiet, I’m not ready, surely death can’t be this anticlimactic? Then once again: 

Beep. 

I look up, bewildered. I meet the eyes of my family members. I am not on the outside this time, with this emotion. We all wonder: is this normal?

“This typically happens when a loved one passes on,” the hospice nurse says. A collective oh. “The heart will start and stop for a little bit before it stops for the final time. This may happen a few more times.” 

Beep. 

I think of what I told him when I had my moment alone with him. 

Beep.

Hey Grandpa, I know you haven’t remembered in a long time, but you used to send me clippings of the animal section of the newspaper. It was because when we moved away, we lived in an apartment and couldn’t have any pets. And I wanted a puppy, or a kitten, so desperately. I wish had known then how much love you put into that. I should have thanked you when you still would’ve known what it meant. 

Beep. 

I have a girlfriend now, too. I think you really would’ve liked her, had you gotten to meet her. I wanted her to meet you. She’s so smart – y’all could’ve talked for hours, and I would’ve loved to see it. Her name is Wren. I want to spend my life with her. I hope she wants to spend her life with me too. I don’t know. She hasn’t said a word to me all day! If you love someone, you show up for them, right? That’s what someone should tell John and Theo, at least. But, maybe she’s busy, and I’m an ass, because why am I telling you about this in my last minutes alone with you? I guess I just wish things could be simpler. It’s just too much to deal with at once – all of this. Also, its easier to just start this conversation and pretend like you already know I’m gay. I told you once when we visited you at the facility. I think you were asleep. You wouldn’t know what it meant, anyway. At least you’re not going to tell me that I should’ve gone to church more often, and then I wouldn’t have turned out like this. I don’t think you and I expected either of us to turn out like this.

Silence. 

I hold my breath. I didn’t expect the stop and start, this petering out. 

Beep. I breathe again. I remember again.

I’m so sorry I didn’t visit more. It was so hard to see you like that. Like this, too. So hard to look at you and to know you had no idea who I was. And then one day, you were trying to say “hi” and maybe shake my hand, I think? Then you grabbed my chest and… I’ve never told anyone about that. But it was so hard to reconcile the man who did that with my grandfather. Of course, it wasn’t intentional, I’ve never held it against you. You couldn’t help it. But after that, I knew you were gone for real, and I should’ve been stronger, like Mom, should’ve toughed it out for you. But I couldn’t in the end, not like I could in the beginning. It was just so hard. I’m so sorry. 

Beep. 

I’m in college now. You’d be proud of that, Mom says. Your kids didn’t go to college, and I’m the first grandkid to do so. It’s a liberal arts school – big surprise – up in New York. Not the city, thank god, because I couldn’t handle that. It’s called Tealbriar College. We’re in the middle of nowhere, but it’s gorgeous. I showed you pictures before. 

Beep. 

I love you so much. I’m so sorry this is how it had to end. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. I don’t believe in God anymore (I’m sorry), but if I did, I would be so angry at him right now. You didn’t deserve this ending. If this is an ending? Which it probably is, because the probability of anything else happening is very slim. I’ve prepared myself for the end. I can handle the end. I think. I don’t know the science that well, but I know enough to say that to think of any other options is to build up false hope in myself. I’m sorry that I can’t have it. I physically can’t.

Silence. 

I look around. A single tear makes its way down Uncle John’s face. My dad’s eyes are watery. The entirety of Theo’s face that isn’t covered by his beard is slick. With a pang in my chest, I remember that he was the first grandkid. He had a whole part of his life with Grandpa that I wasn’t around for, and even if he wasn’t around for as much during Grandpa’s end, Grandpa was there for Theo’s beginning. I think about this to avoid looking at the one person I can’t bear to look at right now – my mom. I know if I look at her, I will lose it. I don’t know how to watch my mom lose her dad. 

Beep. 

Mom and I always knew whenever you were having a good day, because when we said we loved you, you would say “I love you too, kid.” 

Beep. 

Since you can’t say it now, I reckon it’s my turn. I love you too, kid. 

Silence.  

…

Silence.

The alarm blares. Reflexively, I reach to shut it off even before the nurse can this time. And this is it, this is the moment I woke up knowing would come, and I have no idea what to make of it. Death is so quiet, so stealthy. Death took less than five minutes to set in. Death is, well, final. 

“I believe this is it,” the hospice nurse begins gently, motioning to the two nurses waiting outside the door who come in and take the equipment way, starting by unplugging the heart monitor.

And this is when it hits. 

I sob violently, clutching myself, doing my best to hold it in. I sob and I sob and my dad pulls me into his chest, and I clutch at his shirt like I did when I was 5 years old and found out my favorite dog died. I sob and sob because everyone else in the room is crying and it does not make me stick out like a sore thumb to do so. I sob and I sob until I once again become aware of the nurses in the room and I quickly let go of my father, hastily wiping my eyes, and retreat to the chair I sat in prior to the opening of the curtain. My family is moving around the room again, though I am hardly aware of who is where. I stare at the body of my grandfather, my Grandpa, until I no longer can see his form but am instead staring at an abstract blur of fluorescent hospital lights. 

I don’t realize I’m crying again until a new hospital nurse comes up to me. I look at her kindly, slightly wrinkled face, and the cross necklace that hangs in my face as she bends down to look at me. “There, there,” she strokes my back and offers me a bottle of water. “Take a sip of this. He’s in a better place now, you can tell.”  I want to ask her how she knows this; did she not just witness what I had, the meekness of death? She does this every day, has she not seen enough of this to know how life loiters around until the last possible second and how incredibly human death feels? The lack of divinity in death is so palpable that you’d have to be a fool to miss it. But I look up again and see my mom nodding out of the corner of my vision, and see the kindness in the nurse’s eyes, and I keep my mouth shut. My grief is not the only grief in the room right now.

We leave shortly after this. We actually get lunch after this, because, well I’m actually not sure why. I guess there’s not much else to do in the wake of death. We weren’t ready to say another goodbye yet, but we couldn’t bear to loiter any longer than it took to process the initial shock of the loss. I don’t look at my phone the entire time between when we leave the hospital and when we get to lunch. On the ride to the restaurant, I tell my mom that I want to write a eulogy for Grandpa to read at the funeral. I don’t know how it will begin, or really at all what I’ll say. But I know for certain how it will end. I’ve known how it will end for a while:

I love you too, kid.