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Saying Goodbye
By andrea peters
Last edited: Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Posted: Saturday, March 20, 2004
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Saying Goodbye for the last time.
It was a Sunday afternoon when the call came in. My great aunt had suffered a severe stroke and was not expected to live. For many people great aunt’s would be a fairly distant relative, but in this case as my great aunt and uncle and been unable to have children, they had become close to my brother and I.
I immediately left on the 5 hour journey. On the drive I found myself worrying about her elderly husband – my great uncle , who was severely dependent upon my aunt and a very kind and generous man.The first time I saw my aunt laying in the hospital bed, I found it hard to conceive this person who once was so strong willed and independent now lie unconscious and supported by machines. It seemed a cruel reality to see her like that. I found myself wanting to remember her the way she lived. Not the way she was now.My uncle was still awake when I arrived at the house late that evening. He grabbed my hands and looked at me through thick, dusty glasses – his eyes wide and tearful. All he said was “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Over the next few days we visited her in the morning and again in the evening. My heart wrenched every single time as I watched him sit beside her, holding her hand and stroking her forehead. All the while whispering in his shuddering voice “Come home Auntie. Come home. Please come home. Your bed is made and I’ve cleaned your room. Come home.” The weak voice betrayed the knowledge that he already knew. She wasn’t coming home this time.
Three days after the initial stroke, she suffered another. We rushed to the hospital and were told there was nothing they could do. My uncle tightly held my hand and cried. For the first time I had ever seen. He cried. In the most touching voice, “She’s not coming home is she?” His face pleaded with me to deny it. I didn’t know what to say and I guess my silence was my answer.It was so difficult that day to remember the happy times before.
The pain that Uncle was going through was so intense that you could feel it surrounding him like a heavy cloak, weighing upon us all. It grasped you and held you so tightly that it felt like it would drive the very air from your lungs and hold your chest empty. Suffocating.He made the decision to remove life-support to save whatever pride and dignity she still possessed and deserved. The family was in the room standing behind him as Uncle stood at her side, holding her hand. Every few seconds he would look at the life-monitors still hoping that something miraculous would happen. Slowly her blood pressure dropped. The monitors incessant beeps echoing that her body was giving up. 90, 70, 60, then 40, 39……..With each drop, Uncle sobbed and shook. He was losing his partner, his friend. Our friend. I couldn’t help but feel totally helpless in that sterile room. Not only because I couldn’t help Auntie, but that I couldn’t help him.When the monitor finally read zero I heard him say at the end of a breath, “That’s it.” It hurt as much to watch his tears as to look at the now lifeless body lying prone on the bed. As Uncle stood up he brushed the hair from her forehead and laid his hand upon her cheek. “Goodbye, Auntie.” He turned around, and with his shoulders hunched over and his eyes looking at the floor, slowly scuffled out of the room and down the empty hall.
He had never been alone before. Even when Auntie had traveled, someone always stayed with him. For 60 years he had a companion. It was my choice to stay.
There were difficult times during the next few weeks with Uncle walking the house during the night. I could her him opening Aunties room (they had slept separately because of his snoring), his footsteps stopping as I imagined his eyes peering into the darkness, straining for a sign that this was all a terrible nightmare and he would hear her breathing, asleep in her bed.Remarkably there were also enjoyable times. Uncle shared with me things about his life that I had never known. We laughed and talked and learned about each other. And one day he told me that he wanted to go back to the country of his birth to visit his relatives over there. For a while it was unspoken but we both knew he was going there to spend his last days. And as he finally admitted, “To lay down with my mother and father.”
The preparations for leaving the country when you are 85, diabetic and hard of hearing are not easy. It took over 2 weeks and everyone’s help to get everything ready.The morning came too fast. I was packing to return home and he would be starting his journey a few days later. We ate breakfast while the birds in the yard chirped and we talked about the arrangements. I wanted to make sure he remembered everything. He went downstairs to put on his shoes. I didn’t hear anything for awhile as I was packing my car. When I was finished I still could hear no movement from his den, so I peaked around the corner and watched him sitting on the stool he had used for the last 30 years – staring straight ahead. He turned as I walked in the room. “I have to go Uncle”. “Already?”. “Yes.” I smiled and shook his hand – I didn’t know what else to do. I could see his eyes start to water and the thick glasses blur. I could barely see either.
In my entire life I had never hugged my Uncle. For many Orientals that is the case. As he tightly held me, his arms shaking, he felt so fragile. I said, “I’ll see you soon.” His mouth opened a little, but then he just nodded his head. He grabbed my hand and held it as we walked to the garage. I waived as I backed out. “I’ll see you soon”, I said to nobody, anybody. We both knew what I was really saying was “Goodbye”.The drive home was the loneliest drive of my life.
Goodbye Auntie and Uncle.
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