Holding it together, holding it in

I am back, but haven't felt like writing.

Grumpus died November 3rd, very early in the morning. We'd been taking shifts at the hospital so that someone was there all the time. It gave us all peace of mind, and let Grandmommy get some rest, knowing that there were people who loved him there constantly. We took turns sitting with him in the ICU room, since technically only one of us was allowed in at a time.

I was exhausted. I'd been at the hospital all day. I had watched the nurses give him dialysis, a medical intrusion that they weren't confident he'd ever be free of again. I held his hand while they tried to replace his NG tube - a thin hose that went in his nostril and down to his stomach. It clogged when the nurse tried to give him some medicine, and there was pain and fear and blood on his face when they tried to put in a new one. He would squeeze my hand, but he was rapidly withdrawing. He hated all the interference; he was ready to be done.

Sleeping in a chair wasn't working, so I kept myself up with novels and hospital coffee. My uncle was in with Grumpus, and Mom was dozing in a chair when I got up to use the restroom. When I came back they were both standing in our little corner of the waiting room, talking quietly but urgently. My uncle said, "It looks bad."

They bend the rules when you're dying. All three of us went back, and stood helplessly by the bed as the nurses and the doctor examined his fluttering heart rate on the monitors.

"Do you want us to try . . . ?" The question hung open there, in the air above the man in the bed. My uncle shook his head slowly. Mom looked at the floor. "No," I said, in a voice that barely creaked out. "He's had enough."

The nurses nodded understandingly, and then the one who'd been there all night moved to his side. "I'm going to give him some morphine, then, to make him more comfortable."

I stood for a minute, paralyzed. Then I stepped to the side of the bed and took Grumpus' hand. "I love you," I whispered. "We're here, and it's okay to go." I felt my uncle's strong hand on my shoulder. Mom finally moved and took his other hand, but I was the only one who could find any words. I couldn't focus on anything but holding on to his hand, and the beeping that slowed and then stopped.