Dear friends and family,
There are only two months now until I leave on my journey. Please know I have so very much to write to you about and so many of those things are beautifully-written God-stories and praises. Perhaps this one is as well, but this story is not over yet. I am right in the middle of it. Please be patient with me as I struggle to share my heart with you.
My grandfather is dying. A few days ago, his doctor gave him one week to live. He has suffered with Alzheimer’s for several years and over the last few days he has lost his ability to eat or talk. My family has begun arrangements for his funeral, which my cousin has offered to allow my mom and me to watch via Skype (side note: the majority of my family lives in Mauritius, a small island in the Indian Ocean).
This blog is an account of our last Skype visit with him.
* * * * *
The image on the screen makes my stomach turn. My grandfather, whose neck is now paralyzed, lies with his head at a sever angle as though to look at the wall behind him. His cheeks are hollowed, his eyes deeply sunken, the skin beneath them a blotchy purple. Perhaps most shocking is his mouth, which hangs agape as though to gasp desperately for air. He looks like he is the victim of a concentration camp, his arms and legs nothing but bones draped with skin. For a panicked moment, I am sure he is dead. It is only when my grandmother, who has been his love and his companion for the last 58 years, tries to coax him into saying something that I realize he is not.
He doesn’t say anything, but he stirs a little, the movement seeming to take great effort. She asks if he will open his eyes for us.
I hold my breath and wait.
Suddenly his eyes flutter open into a distressingly wide stare. He does not blink and I begin to wonder if he will be able to shut them again. He starts to mumble. It does not sound like complete words but my mother tells me he sends us kisses. He seems satisfied with this and lapses back into silence.
My grandmother sings to him in French. Her voice is sweet and soothing and if I close my eyes I might imagine she is singing a lullaby to a child. I try to catch some of the words but it is too fast for me to understand more than ‘I love you’ in the lyrics. I don’t know that I’ve ever admired her strength more than I do in this moment.
All of the activity seems too much for him. He starts to shift a bit in his bed. My mom suggests that he might be thirsty.
We wait for what seems like a small forever as my grandmother touches a drop of water to his tongue. Only a second passes before he splutters and gags, unable to swallow even that little bit of fluid. I wince at his obvious discomfort. It is so heartbreaking to see him like this.
I force myself to recall what he was like when I was little. I want to remember him that way: energetic and full of life, not as this hollowed skeleton that appears on the computer screen in front of me.
I have one memory in particular that skips through my mind whenever I think about him during happier times. It is only a few seconds long, as most memories are. It is of the twinkle he’d get in his eye right before he disappeared around the corner only to reappear, accordion in hand, playing and singing with all the enthusiasm of an accordionist at a romantic five-star Italian restaurant.
I want to remember him like that. I want to remember the little boy grin he wore on his face.
Tears slip down my mother’s cheeks as she leans into the microphone to tell him she loves him. Over and over she tells him, and I wonder if she repeats herself because she isn’t sure if he comprehends her words or if she simply is at a loss for what else to say. Her voice, which started out clear begins to waver and crack, but she does not stop. “J’taime, Papa. Papa, j’taime. J’taime. J’taime. J’taime.”
I reach for her hand.
I feel as though I should say something too, but no words come. My lips suddenly feel glued together and my voice has vanished. I can only stare.
There is an inner monologue going on in my head:
This might be your last chance to say goodbye. Say something. Say anything.
What will I say? He does not remember who I am.
Anything is better than nothing.
But I don’t know enough French and I am too emotional to speak.
As I am thinking this, my little cousin, who is holding the laptop for us to see him, reaches out to caress his cheek with the back of her hand. It is such a sweet and gentle motion, full of affection and heartache. She settles her hand on top of his.
Her words ring in my ear: “I am simply doing what a girl should do for her grandfather. I will be next to him until his last breath.” A wave of guilt washes over me. They asked me to come so many times. I always had a reason I could not be there. And now I am too late.
My mom says Grandpere should rest. He looks tired from our visit.
“Au revoir, Papa,” she whispers, and I wonder if this is goodbye forever. My grandmother tells him to wave to us, the way a mother would tell a child. He stirs again, and for a hopeful second, I believe he will wave.
Instead, he shifts to put his arms under the covers.
He is cold.
The video shuts off.
In the end I did not say anything.
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted;
he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.
(Psalm 34:18)
