Tuesday, 18 September 2007
01:17:38 AM (GMT)
It was probably the worst thing in the world, to sit there next to him, watching his
closed eyelids and hope he would wake up with enough energy to talk. But, mainly, the
fact he was even in the hospital was scary enough, not that he wouldn’t wake up
just yet. I thought he was going, and I am still scared of him leaving now. I just
pray so much that he’ll stay long enough for him to talk to me again. I miss his
I mean, he’s pretty bad. The doctors said he would have died if ‘it’ hadn’t
happened. He had ulcers all up and down his ‘esophagus’, or whatever you use to
transport things to and sadly from your mouth. One was so close to an artery, he
would have bled to death in time had ‘it’ not have happened.
I’m glad he has a private hospital room. I don’t like it when many people are
watching us. But he is in intensive care, so I guess it’d have to be a big room
made for one person. I know that he has done bad things with his life, like drinking,
smoking, and other health dangers. That’s why he’s here now.
I was there when ‘it’ happened. I saw it flash by me. It was at my
great-grandpa’s (my Pappap’s dad) 80th birthday party. I swear, I was having one
of the best times of my life. We didn’t know then about the ulcers, or the artery,
or anything going on inside my Pappap’s body, then. But I was sitting on the
stairs, waiting for someone to talk to me, when something large crashed right into
me. I spun around and saw my Pappap face down on the stairs. Not moving. Eyes
I think I just thought he was going to get up and shake it off, because my Pappap was
a tough man. He works on the railroad, and he’s as strong as any guy that age could
be. He always liked teasing me about it, that he was stronger than me. He called me
names like ‘girly girl’ or ‘wimpy’, and I always countered with
‘redneck!’ or ‘slime ball’. But we didn’t really mean it. We were just
Anyways, when my family finally realized he wasn’t going to be okay, we sat him up
and tried to get him back to us. He was still conscious. He just didn’t want to
open his eyes. When I saw his eyes start rolling back, and he started shaking, I
remember all these fears suddenly coming up inside me. My mom felt it, too. I watched
her reach for the phone, dialing 911.
I couldn’t stand watching him like that. He looked so weak. So I ran outside and
waited for the ambulance to show up. When they came, I took them inside to the bottom
of the stairs. When the medic asked what happened, I still remember my Pappap
chuckling and pointing to my aunt. “It’s all her fault!” he stated in a false
accusatory tone, “She did it, whatever happened!” And I remember us laughing, one
small silver lining to a dark black cloud.
When I found out they were taking him, I went back to the front and sat with my
Pappap’s brother, Jimmy. I had never even talked to the guy, but he was there,
comforting me and telling me how my Pappap would get through it fine.
My mom stayed at the house, watching it while my grandma Tata went in the ambulance
with my Pappap. The rest of the family filed out, some going to the hospital, others
home to await news. My dad came later to pick me and my sister up, and my mom
returned at about midnight.
The next day, I learned of what had happened. When he fell, his lung exploded. Yes,
it actually exploded. Busted. Boom. I felt a little relieved that he was doing fine,
at least according to mom. He wasn’t breathing as best as he could, but he was
alive. That’s all that mattered to me right then.
Later, they found out the problem with the ulcers. He would have died within a month,
the doctors said, if he hadn’t fallen down the stairs. I guess it was a blessing in
disguise, that fall was.
Then, I made up my mind that I would go visit him. I knew that it may be the last
time I would see him. Those medics were sure that there was an even chance of living
or dying for him. I prayed that he would make it through healthy and ready to
exchange an insult or two with me when he was back to his house.
I wished he was awake, but they had him on so many pills, he was completely out of
it. Seeing him helpless, oxygen running through his nose and needles sticking in his
arms, pretty much did it for me. I cried, feeling that hopeless feeling you get when
you do something wrong. I don’t think I did anything wrong, but my heart kept
telling me that I could have said so much more to him, and I still feel it. I believe
I always will.
But when I left the hospital, I wanted to go straight back inside. I would have sat
next to my grandma, waiting for him to open his eyes again. He had been awake this
morning, she had said, he ate a good breakfast and talked to my aunt when she stopped
by. But now, he was sleeping, and I think he would want to be left alone.
I know I may never see him the way I had before again, outside, holding a basketball
or climbing a tree, grilling his burgers or sitting at the old wooden tables. I know
we may never get to hug each other again, or say goodbye again, but I will see him
again someday. I just hope, that small, glimmering hope, that he will make it out