The Phone Hasn’t Rung Since July, Abuelita
The phone in the living room stopped ringing.
Yes, it was old,
but that’s not why we haven’t heard it ring anymore.
It’s still fully functional,
but there’s no one left there to call.
The bedroom off to the side has been emptied.
Pieces of clothing were removed hanger by hanger and packed away in storage containers.
The bed was taken apart.
The sheets and pillows were stripped,
the mattress was removed,
and the entire bed frame was disassembled.
We boxed up never ending amounts of yarn,
enough art supplies to paint a mural,
and enough beads to make a necklace that could wrap around the world.
All of which were saved for crafts she will never get to make.
I watched all these memories of her get taken away in a loaded U-Haul trailer,
and I remembered how just a few weeks before,
I watched her get taken away in a black mortuary van.
I’ve watched Grandma leave the house before in Dad’s truck, going to the emergency room because she got sick again,
but every time she left she always came back.
My family stood there in a puddle of disbelief,
holding each other in the driveway as we watched the van that held Grandma leave. Mom said, “It’s hard to believe she’s not coming back home this time.”
She had left home for the final time.
Signs that the end of her story was coming revealed themselves in small,
but painful ways
that made her death so surreal.
A copy of the rosary prayer guide appeared on my mom’s desk one day.
I knew the end was coming.
In our family, we seem to only pray the rosary when someone dies.
I heard Dad crying in the kitchen one day with Mom.
I knew the end was coming.
I’ve only ever seen Dad cry when someone dies.
The church was called,
so the priest and deacon came.
I knew that in our faith,
the “Last Rites” are only given when someone is dying.
A hospital bed was delivered one day in mid-July.
Nurses started visiting her frequently.
I knew that all of this meant the end was coming.
In my mind, hospice only meant one thing.
Someone is dying, and the truth I couldn’t begin to fathom hit me all at once.
Mi abuelita is the one who’s dying.
No- this can’t be real.
It can’t be her time.
She’s always been strong, she’ll get through this…right?
She watched me grow since the day I was born.
From taking my first steps to graduating high school,
she saw it all,
but our short time together was still not enough.
Ninety-eight years is a long time to live.
As a little girl, I thought she couldn’t get any older.
Although I’m now grown,
that little girl wasn’t prepared to lose her grandma so soon.
Goodbyes became risky,
because another hello wasn’t guaranteed.
I grew afraid to leave the house,
afraid she would pass while I was gone.
My friends didn’t see me for weeks,
knowing I didn’t want to miss the time I had left with her.
Time became a troubling concept.
I hated how we went from time enjoyed spent
to anxiously anticipating the end.
How did I go from watching her crochet in the kitchen
to sitting beside her deathbed?
How did I go from playing the piano for her to saying my final goodbyes?
“Tocame la Cucaracha, mija!”
“Pero no se como tocar la Cucaracha, Abuelita.”
“Te quiero mucho, Abuelita. Que descanses en paz.”
…
I’d anxiously count down the minutes left at work,
waiting to see her again at home
in the same spot as always on her recliner.
Until the day she decided she wanted to use her hospice bed.
She wants to use the bed now?
She was so opposed to it before.
Her choosing the bed over the recliner
felt like a heartbreaking sign of acceptance.
At least now she’ll be more comfortable for…when it’s time.
The hospice nurses were nice.
Sean was my favorite.
His gentle kindness touched my grandma’s heart.
“Bless her heart,” he would say, admiring her strength.
He made my family comfortable
in moments of terrifying uncertainty.
“If you ever need anything at all, do not hesitate to call us.
We’re here for your family as well.”
He sympathized with us,
knowing that the weight of Grandma’s care
fell between the same few people who never left her side.
“Where are her other kids to help her?”
The nurses and doctors always asked that
at every hospital visit Dad took her to.
Sean and the other hospice nurses wondered the same.
How come a widowed mother
was only receiving care on her deathbed
from two out of five remaining children?
Dad had been monitoring Grandma’s health
solo for the last twenty years,
because his siblings showed us
that unconditional love
doesn’t seem to run as deep as blood.
Her final hours slowly encroached on our time.
Visits from hospice went from once every few days to daily visits.
That can’t be good.
Then, her meal intake lessened by the day.
She finished a whole cup of jello today.
Maybe she’s feeling better.
Then, she started communicating less.
“She hasn’t been awake since she ate Monday morning at seven.”
We were thankful for FaceTime,
allowing distant family to say their goodbyes.
My sister left work early that day to come over.
My brother was on his way back from Mexico.
“I really hope he makes it back in time.”
“Is he almost home!?”
Then, a final nurse came by at noon.
“They tend to pass when no one is around. When you least expect it.”
So no one left Grandma’s side.
Chatter filled the living room that late afternoon
as if we were under normal circumstances.
As if this were a typical Wednesday
and she was just watching her novellas.
As if I was a little girl again coloring with her at the table.
As if it was Christmas time and we were decorating the tree together.
As if it was a boring weekend afternoon and I was teaching her how to play bingo,
or teaching her a few English words, or showing her a new craft I made. As if I was coming home from school and hearing her say, “Hi mija,” as I walked through the door.
Those were normal circumstances.
For a brief moment,
like the calm before the storm,
I almost forgot the reality of the situation because when you least expect it,
the storm hits and then–
“I don’t think she’s breathing anymore!!”