Love and Remorse
I will never forget
the date of March 30, 2011. That year I was a senior a 17-years-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 lead 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 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 none the less.
Emma was the sweetest
and most caring woman I knew. She had wrinkled skin, thin, grey hair, a hunched
back, and 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 could only 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, who’s room was across from mine, had already been 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. She was a beautiful black and brown
haired German Shepard. I remember her shedding so much, we would joke about
making blankets with her discarded coat hairs. The 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 2-2 ½ hour drive and
we got to the hospital around 10a.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 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 good byes. We informed the doctors and nurses that we were finished and
they turned off the machine 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 12:45p.m. I remember that time
specifically, 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 and , but gosh, it gets to me every time. I feel he shared
the same relationship with father that I have 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 my previous challenges 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 