Jacob Fortner
Janel Spencer
WRT 101S
2/6/2019
Love and Remorse
I will never forget the date of March 30, 2011. That year I was a 17-year-old-senior in high school. I was attending Pocono Mountain West High School in Swiftwater, Pennsylvania. I still remember it: red brick wall exterior, white wall interior. I remember those polished, sleek hallway floors until they led into a carpet-based classroom. It was a great senior year and I enjoyed every minute of it. The education, the teachers, and my friends. The fact that I was graduating in two months made me eager, yet remorseful. I was eager to start a new life outside of school, yet remorseful for not enjoying the moments and hard work leading up to that graduation. In 2011, I never wanted to graduate. I wanted to bask in the moment of euphoria forever. I felt so invincible.
My relationship with my family, however, was another story. We have never really been close, especially at this point in our lives. I mostly hung around my friends and their family. The only person I truly loved and cared for in my biological family was my grandmother, Emma May Fortner. Emma lived in Sierra Vista, Arizona, so seeing them when I wanted to was impossible. Me being younger, I truly didn’t appreciate our moments together as much as I wish, but I still did nonetheless.
Emma was the sweetest and most caring woman I knew. She had wrinkled skin; thin, grey hair; a hunched back; and a walker stalked with an oxygen tank. I remember that wire being stretched across the floor in whatever house or condo we were in. Or when we went out, I didn’t understand she had to bring it with her. I had not fully understood what it was for. I was unaware her breathing complications originated from years of smoking cigarettes. I simply couldn’t wait for family trips and visits to see her.
I remember coming home on March 29 to see my dad’s truck in the driveway. This was peculiar because he always got home from work hours after we got home from school. As I started walking up the wooden front porch step to my mustard-brown house, I could slowly start to see my father sitting in the living room through our huge front windows. As I approached the door and opened it, I knew he was pained. He looked up and said, “Pack your stuff for a couple weeks, we are going to visit grandma in Sierra Vista.”
Right away, I felt a frog in my throat. My eyes teared as the overwhelming rush of panic came over me. My grandmother had been in bad health recently and so I knew exactly what he meant. I embraced my father as we exchanged tears. After composing myself, I took myself to my room, tears still streaming, packing whatever clothes I could find. My sister, whose room was across from mine, had already packed. She had been out of school for some time and had yet to attend college.
I had been on many trips to Arizona, most of the accompanied with my sister. My dad was in the military, so I was flown often to Arizona to live with other relatives while he was deployed. But this trip felt the longest, as if the pilot took an indirect path just to kill the time. All I could think is, What happened to her? What will she look like when I see her? What will she say to me? What do I say to her? I could feel the anxiety and tension building up.
After those long 5-6 hours on the plane, we touched down in Phoenix and were greeted by my aunt and uncle. They owned a house in Phoenix, so they picked us up and let us stay the night. I honestly can’t remember that night well. I just remember my aunt’s huge, two-story house and lovely dog, Saber. Saber was a beautiful black and brown-haired German Shepherd. I remember her shedding so much, we would joke about making blankets with her discarded coat hairs. The house was too large for just three of them, at least in my opinion. It felt more like a luxurious cave than a house.
The next day, my dad, sister, aunt, and I headed to Sierra Vista. It was about a 2-2 ½ hour drive and we got to the hospital around 10 a.m. Still unaware of the severity of the situation, I didn’t pay attention to the interactions we had with any doctors or nurses. What I do remember is my first step inside that room.
I came in and the first thing I saw was my grandfather crying. He had a tough exterior, so I knew it had to be bad. I then looked at the bed he was standing beside. It was my grandmother, at least a shell of her. I had come to realize they kept her alive artificially for us to say our goodbyes. Tears hit the floor before I could even fathom it. I couldn’t believe this could happen to her. The only person I considered family was dying and there was nothing I could do about it. I loved her more than anything and I had to face the fact that I would never see her again.
I walked up to her and grabbed and held her hand. It was already cold and stiff. I held it to my hot, teary face. I remembered the times we had together: talking with my grandma in her nice, comfy little blue home, the times she would take me to the Cove Waterpark, at Disneyland and Legoland during our family vacation, visiting Aunt Mary in California. I think my favorite memory is just how we use to watch tennis while I ate ice cream sandwiches and drank Coke out of the can. I didn’t like tennis then, but I did enjoy the time we spent together.
We all took turns saying our goodbyes. We informed the doctors and nurses that we were finished and they turned off the machine that was keeping her alive. We all stood around, just watching. It felt excruciating. Her breaths were heavy and getting shorter while her chest was struggling to rise. We all started to cry; my poor grandmother was leaving before my eyes. She finally stopped breathing and a silence fell over the room. It was the most heartbreaking silence I have endured. I looked up at the clock and it read 12:45 p.m. I remember that time specifically, and I will never forget for as long as I live.
We didn’t stay in the room much longer. I didn’t realize it at the moment, but later I realized my grandmother died in the very hospital I was born. I don’t know what to make of that. I think it’s a blessing on my part, but it’s so depressing to know she died where I started living.
Wherever I go, I always have subtle reminders of her, whether they are songs, movies, or just memories. I remember watching Sea Biscuit with her in my house in Pennsylvania. We were on the base floor watching the movie, just her and I on the couch. I remember her crying at the end because the horse won the race. I never knew how sweet and sympathetic she was until that moment. I remember her nature every time I hear “Candour” or “19 Seventy Something” by Neckdeep. The songs are about his father’s death, but gosh, it gets to me every time. I feel he shared the same relationship with his father that I had with my grandmother.
I didn’t understand the importance of appreciating the things in front of me. I didn’t know, being young, that she would go so soon. I didn’t know that our last trip to Disneyland would be the last time I would see her in good health. I didn’t know that would be the last time I would say goodbye. I think the worst part is getting holiday cards from my grandfather and not seeing my grandmother’s signature next to his. The cards always look so naked. They feel like incomplete works of art.
I’ve learned to appreciate my loved ones around me. It’s a scarce circle, but I do appreciate the ones still in my life. I will always miss my grandma, her blue house, and my high school memories. That will never change. However, I have come to understand that my previous challenges with overcoming these changes were difficult, yet necessary. It would be great to stay in those moments; they’re familiar and gratifying. They’re comfortable. They’re what you want to be constant. Although, you won’t grow if you don’t change. Change is difficult. Every blessing in your life isn’t made to last forever. I know that’s a hard bullet to bite, but it’s necessary. If you dwell on one blessing, you’ll never notice any other miracles coming your way in life. You’ll be stuck in the past and that can be dangerous and self-destructive. Sometimes, you just have to swallow that pill and move on. It’s a tough task, but I know it’s what my grandmother would have wanted.
Jake's Jungle 