Mother called me in the middle of Sunday mass, her voice trembling and eerily quiet all at once. "He's taken a turn for the worse, Jenni.  They don't think it's going to be long." And it all seemed so surreal, to be standing outside the chruch, while the Deacon (who was celebrating his 28th year of ordainment) prattled on about the importance of forgiveness and sin.  I walked back into the church, straight and determined, tears hot on my face but not sobbing.  I'm too controlled for that. And when I reached the pew I repeated what mother told me, he's taken a turn for the worse, it won't be long.  And he looked at me and said, "okay. Let's go."  And I'm sure we must have been a sight, me with my already raw eyes and nose (from an allergy attack last night) with fresh tears on my face, trailing my seven year old son behind me--Brad leading the way.  I got the car, and he got the five year old, and in a matter of minutes we were on our way to the in-laws to drop off the children.

And as we drove to San Antonio, and the hospital, we talked of light things, any thing to get my mind off where I was going and why.  And I complained about San Antonio traffic, and Brad commisserated, and we eventually made it to the medical center.  There was only one parking space left in the parking lot of the hospital, way in the front of the lot--away from the entrance and under a tree--and as we walked up to the door I called my mom.  "Mom, I'm here.  OK?  I'm coming upstairs."  She told me the room number and said she would meet me at the elevator doors.  I didn't know what to expect.  She was a wreck after her mother and dad's dad died.  She doesn't like to show emotion even though she's the most emotional of all of us.  So I wasn't sure what she would say, how she would be....her dad was dying, after all.  Mercifully, she was composed.  We walked to the room.

I've never seen someone so close to death before.  My grandfather, god bless his soul, was hooked to all sorts of machinery and monitors when I visited him last.  There was a minimum of machinery here.  It was all about comfort.  No life support machine breathing air into his lungs, no wires extended from his arms and chest.  Just a shell of the man I once knew, and two tubes on his face, one for feeding and one for oxygen.  My aunts and uncles surrounded him, alternately stroking his hand or his hair, discussing what would be done next.  A hospice?  A home?  Would he make the trip?  Case workers were called in and doctors and a rather nice nurse named Vicky were in and out as the discussion went on.  My grandfather gasped quietly for air in his bed.  People were consulted and decisions were made.  He would remain in the hospital.  He was too frail to move, and likely wouldn't make the night.  If he was still "here" in the morning, they would see what could be done then.

And so it went for another three hours.  Eventually everyone (but me) was hungry and my aunt and I were sent to Subway.  My mother called while we were in the checkout line.  His breathing was much shallower and there were long pauses between the breaths.  We needed to get back ASAP.  As my aunt filled up the sodas I bought myself three white-chocolate macademia nuts and a coke, explaining to the clerk that I crave sweets when I'm upset.  He wished me a good day.  I just smiled.

Brad was waiting for us in the parking lot and sent my aunt straight up.  We watched and waited for awhile, like vultures surrounding a dying animal--listening to his gasping and rattling, counting the seconds between his breaths, wondering if he was ever going to take another.  But he seemed to stabilize, so I took my cousin to the lounge to eat.  When we were done, I returned to  the room, which now resembled some sort of renaissance painting.  All the children surrounded him, each touching a part of his body, a hand, a foot, his head as his breath grew shallower and shallower.  My aunt moved me to the head of the bed so I could put my hand on him, which I had--up to this point--carefully avoided.  I knew it was silly, but after I touched my grandfather (my dad's dad) three years ago he died...that night...and I didn't want a repeat.  But I was goaded into it, finally resting my hand lightly on his wrist through a sheet.  About a minute later, I noticed he hadn't taken a breath.  Another minute later, everyone else noticed too.

There was much commotion while the siblings tried to figure out how to tell if he was still breathing, and finally I reached into my purse and pulled out my compact, holding the mirror up to his nose and mouth.  Nothing.  No condensate. I touched his neck, no pulse.  He was gone.  Then we all stood around for a minute before my uncle launched into a prayer wishing grandpa into heaven.  My mother began to sob--I gave her some tissues I brought.  Then my aunt and great-aunt (his sister) began to shake and sob--I gave them tissues, too.  My uncles tried to remain stoic, but eventually they needed tissues as well.  Sometime shortly after that, I walked outside on legs that felt like rubber and told Vicky, his ICU nurse, he had stopped breathing.  She hugged me and went to get a stethescope to make sure.  A few minutes after that we were sure.  He was gone.  We just needed the doctor to come and call the TOD.

And though my face was wet with tears, I did not cry.  Partially because my mother needed someone in the room to be strong, but mostly because my grandfather always said that I looked especially ugly when I cried, and I wasn't about to look ugly in front of him.  I just stood there at the foot of the bed while my uncles rearranged him aesthetically.  Moving pillows to arrange him better, closinig his mouth, positioning his feet.  To myself I wondered what they were up to, as did Brad and my aunt.  Then it occured to me, they were worried about him staying in the position he had died in.  I switched into academic mode, muttering to myself, "but rigor won't set in for a couple of hours, and he won't begin to show any signs of levitity for some time after that."  Brad heard me and motioned for me to shut up.  My aunt turned to me with red eyes, "what did you say?"  "Nothing." I muttered.  "Nothing."

We waited a little while for the priest to come and give him last rights, and then Brad told everyone he was taking me home.  There really wasn't anything more to be done.  My aunt (my mom's twin sister) who couldn't get a flight in time was already on her way, and mother had to pick her up.  And I had kids to pick up and a class to go on Monday night.  We left the building on a wave of thank yous.  Thank you for being here.  Thank you for being strong.  Thank you for doing the slide-show presentation for the funeral. 

Brad drove us back to San Marcos and the comfort of my children--both of whom solemnly told me how sorry they were that my grandfather had died.  But...added my oldest...he's in heaven now with his wife, so he's in a better place, right?  And I had to answer him, "yes."

I'll miss you Ta-ta. But I'm sure you're in a better place now.  Try not to argue with Memo too much, and remember, you're not supposed to cuss in heaven.  Maybe we'll get to see you sometime....just not so soon.