The Irresolution of Grief

I can imagine the scene as though I was there.

I can imagine my once-robust grandfather frail and jaundiced, the steady rhythms of a machine the only thing keeping him alive.

I can imagine my grandmother, sitting at his bedside, holding his hand, crying.

I can imagine him asking in a broken voice to be let go, it was time, he had made peace with God.

I can imagine my mother, my aunts, my uncle, clinging to each other, whispering over the decision.

I can imagine the machines being shut down, one by one, their lights fading to darkness, his last shallow breaths, family huddled, waiting for the end.

I can only imagine.

I was half a mile away, yawning my way through a class on communication theory, wanting to get home and watch something on television.

I was sitting on a bus that took me right past the hospital, unaware, unsuspecting.

I was struggling to prepare to teach the next day, trying to learn some model of persuasion my students would only remember until the next test.

I was chit-chatting online, e-mailing friends, behaving as though everything was normal.

I remember the phone call. It was noon. I was supposed to leave for a teaching assistant staff meeting. I hadn't done my statistics homework.

I missed the call. I was in the shower. I remember the message. My mother asking me to call, her voice breaking. I knew what it meant. He'd been sick more than a decade.

I remember picking up the phone, calling home. I remember that word meaning something. The meaning is long gone.

I listened as she told me he was gone. He had asked to be let go. He wanted it to be over. He had been in the hospital for a week this time. He couldn't take any more.

I remember wondering why no one called. A week, and no one called. Half a mile away, and no one called. I can only imagine.

I didn't cry. I got excused from my classes, excused from the statistics homework I hadn't done. I can't remember the rest of that day, or the next. I can't remember anything until the funeral. It was a Thursday.

I drove alone. I was the first to arrive. I walked in alone, into that room alone, through all of those empty chairs toward the casket alone, and I remember thinking that wasn't my grandfather there, it was just a body in clothes he once wore. The knowledge knocked the wind out of me, still knocks the wind out of me. I started crying and couldn't stop.

My mother said she was surprised I cried and my sister didn't. She thought I would have been the one to be strong. I tried to stop. I was ashamed.

I try to understand, my mother, my grandmother, my aunts, my uncle, each of them lost in their own grief. I try to understand why no one called. I can only imagine.