Death's Illusion

I was too young to understand what death meant, a disappearance, a loss of security. It meant so little to me when I was four. My grandpa was merely disappearing. My dad still tells me about the last visit with him there. He was trying to teach me a French game called Pépon. I stood on his feet, as he walked around his small cottage in Normandy. To a four-year-old, this was the most amusing thing in the world. I had him repeat this over and over again, then he got tired and collapsed on the cold floor, this was the first sign.

    The next day, after he regained his consciousness, I played Go Fish with him. We sat down on the wooden chairs and laid out the cards on the floral draped table. I dealt us five cards each face down. We both picked up our cards and analyzed them. I noticed a huge red spot on his hand. “Pepe,” I asked my grandpa, “you have a big booboo.” My grandpa was one of the only family members from my dad’s side that could moderately speak and understand English. He looked down at his bloody hand. He plastered a smile to his face, trying to hide the inner turmoil, “Claire, I am well, just little blood.” He rose out of his seat, got himself a band aid, and sat back down. He then asked, “Do you have any…” “Pepe!,” I interrupted. “You got an even bigger booboo on your arm!” He looked down at his arm; sure enough, he was coated with bruises. “Claire, can we Go Fish tomorrow? I very tired.” His eyes suddenly looked very heavy like he was having trouble keeping them opened. He hobbled up the stairs.

    If only I had known and could understand when I was four, I would have tried to make him better. On our last day, we kissed and hugged good bye. That day, my dad gave his father a tight squeeze, stronger and more passionate than one from a grizzly bear. It was his last memory of his father, and there was some unspoken understanding that things were going to change, but that everything would eventually be okay. Three weeks after we arrived home, my grandmother said that Pepe was in the hospital and getting weaker and weaker. Two days later, leukemia took my grandfather off of this earth.

    My grandmother has always been a little sickly and frail. She smoked when she was young, and two years ago she was diagnosed with both Pulmonary Fibrosis and Crohn’s disease. This is when her health began to deteriorate rapidly. She began visiting the hospital more and more frequently.

    Every year I go to Louisiana to visit my mother’s side of the family. This summer was different. My mother was only staying for a day, so I was in charge of Camille and myself. When we landed in New Orleans, Louisiana, my mom received a call from my aunt; my grandmother had just been admitted into the hospital. I thought about how I was going to be able to face her and still stay strong for Camille. After the four hour car ride to Alexandria, my grandfather dropped me and Camille off at the hospital. I had to force a grin and convince myself to believe things were going to be okay. We were greeted by a grinning lady at the front desk. I hesitated, “Where is…umm…do you know what room Marie Cockerham is in?” She went through her papers. “Sixth floor, room 661.” My shoes clunked against the laminate floor. I led Camille to the elevator. It smelled of rubbing alcohol and hand sanitizer, the potent odor of death. It dinged once we reached the sixth floor. Camille and I walked out and lingered towards room 661. The door was already cracked open, so I just opened it wider. Inside was a small cubicle. I walked passed the counter and toilet. My grandmother lay on a small bed huddled against layers of wool blankets. “Hi…Claire.” My grandma breathed into her inhaler and contorted her facial expression, “Hi Camille.” I shuffled over to the small bed she was laying on. Remembering that Camille was counting on me, I pushed the thoughts of how much bone density and fat she had lost, how she looked transparent compared to the green walls. I leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “I have missed you Claire. I am very glad you came to visit.” Tears bubbled up in my eyes. I blinked twice, if I lost it Camille would surely also loose it. I stood up straight, “You too.” I walked over to the long couch beside her bed and sat down. It was silent for several minutes. I was unsure what to say. My grandma broke the silence by coughing. The horrible high pitched shrills rattled the air like a train going hastily through an extended tunnel. “Can….you get…me that…inhaler.” She tried to steady her arm, so she could point to the tube on the table next to her. I got up and grimaced, hopefully it was convincing enough. I handed her the inhaler. Her grasp was weak, and she had trouble lifting it. “Th…ank…you,” she stumbled. “No problem, Nana.” After breathing into her purple life support, she commented, “You girls look so much like your mother.” She attempted to warp her wrinkly lips into a simper. Then she told many stories of what my mother had done when she was our age. Both of us were engaged in how much of an imbecile our mother had been. Time passed by and soon we had spent three hours there. My grandmother had to stop several times to take her inhaler, cough, or drink a sip of water, but I was growing more and more comfortable. When we left, I could still hear her haunting coughs down the hospital hallway.

    Death had a tight grasp around her throat. It was eventually going to seize her like it did my grandfather. I was going to have to be strong again, so that Camille got the illusion that death was just part of life, just like the science teachers drilled into our minds. Unfortunately, death is more than that. Once someone dies, you can never see them again. They disappear forever, forcing you to rely on memories which eventually fade into nothing. All I have left of my grandfather is the stories told to me by my parents, and I do not want that to happen with my grandmother.