Death

In my native language, Death is a woman. We imagine that a female body hides behind the Grim Reaper’s thick rope. And let’s face it, that little get-up has always looked like a dress to me.

In my mind, Death is a pruny old spinster at a family party. And you’re afraid to glance her way because if your eyes meet, you know she’s going to limp towards you, her rough wrinkled hands latching onto your arm. You know that she’ll go on and on and on about people you’ve never met, events you couldn’t have witnessed, places you’ve never been to. You know that you’ll be stuck with her forever, that no one will come to the rescue, for they don’t want to be in your shoes themselves.

In actuality, Death is a fact, as gender neutral as inflation or tables or pipes. Death has no face, no body, no conscience. Death.

…

When my grandfather was 85, he had stomach cancer and had to undergo an operation. I was 20 at the time and staying with my grandparents and set myself the task of saying goodbye to him. I willingly listened to the stories about his rowing days and took mental notes of interesting details I hoped to remember after he was gone. When the time for the operation came, I was ready for the worst.

I was ready to let my grandfather go. I did mental simulations of life without him, of comforting my grandmother, of going to his funeral. It hurt, but I was ready. On the other hand, the mere thought that my grandmother could one day die was too painful to even contemplate. I wasn’t a child anymore and understood that loss was a part of life, but my grandmother was the exception. She couldn’t die like everybody else. No, not her. I made her promise that she would never ever die. So far, she has kept her word.

It turned out that my grandfather survived the operation. He lived for twelve years after that. I was there for him when he died, toothless in a hospital bed at age 97. And weirdly enough, this time around, I was less ready for it. I mean, he’d survived a battle against cancer. And a couple of months before his death, I had helped him renew his driver’s license (don’t ask). I began to think he was never going to die, that he was going to outlive us all out of sheer stubbornness.

What I remember the most about his death was how much he didn’t want to go. He fought death to the last minute. His kidneys had shut down and he was delusional and mumbling incoherently, but he kept on fighting. He would hold out his hands and grasp at the air, at things only he could see. He would motion for us to do the same. The doctors gave him a sedative, and still he wouldn’t rest. They kept saying that he should have quietened down by then, but he was having none of it. He would look at you with bugged out eyes and he kept mumbling, desperately trying to communicate, but unable to convey his message. There was so much fear in his eyes, so much urgency. I had never seen him this afraid. Or maybe it was the absence of his dentures which kind of brought his whole face down and hollowed out his cheeks, making him look a bit like that famous “Scream” painting.

Of course, eventually he did calm down and he did die. Try as he might, he couldn’t “outstubborn” Death. And once again I made my grandmother promise that she would never ever die.

…

Today I woke up and my grandmother was crying. I had a ton of work to do and was hoping to get some of it done in the morning, while her caretaker was here, but what could I do? I sat down next to her and asked her what had happened. Apparently, she’d forgotten who I was during the night. She saw somebody turning off the lights to her room, but didn’t know it was me, didn’t recognize my voice when I spoke to her. And in the morning when her caretaker explained who it had been, she just couldn’t believe she’d forgotten me.

And so she was crying, a deep, quiet, unstoppable kind of crying. Crying over her useless eyes and faulty ears. Crying over her untrustworthy brain, which makes her forget things, but then remember them, and remember that she’s forgotten them. Her unreliable brain, which fragments the things she knows and makes it so hard for her to puzzle the pieces together. Crying over this shell of a life she’s been leading, this limbo she’s found herself in.

…

And not for the first time, I wish she were dead.