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???How sad, how pitiful.???
Walking into that sterile building, filled with germs,
decays and disease, I held tightly to his hand. It was 1955
or 56; it??™s strange that I can??™t remember exactly. I hadn??™t
been going out with him long, but he asked me to come along.
We entered not knowing what to expect. He didn??™t remember
the last time he??™d seen her. Actually, he really didn??™t even
know her that well. How could he not know her? She was his
grandmother. We took the elevator up, the doors opened;
stepping out, we silently walked down the corridor hunting
the room number.
Antiseptic smells mixed with medications loomed in the
hallways. White clad nurses scurried in and out of rooms as
the intercom system occasionally called out a room number or
doctor??™s name. The squeak of our shoes could be heard on the
glassy waxed floor under our feet. I continued to cling to
his hand; he held it as tightly as he held in his emotions.
There it was, the number, shoulder high beside the closed
door. We paused; he gently pushed it open. We stepped in the
room where death could be heard, smelled and felt. He
dropped my hand and walked to her side. The bedrails were
raised and a sheet covered the tiny, frail, shrunken woman.
She did not know of our presence; only death knew we were
there. He tenderly touched her, wiping her brow. The look of
despair had long left her face and been captured by his. The
mere shell of a worn out soul and the last inklings of life
lay before him. I stood back watching. Compassion had seized
him.
His own Mother had lain alone enduring the pains of
childbirth. His Father left one day; no explanation was ever
given. He had not reappeared until after his son??™s birth. He
got the divorce he wanted and left again. On occasions
through the years he had returned to stop by for a quick
visit. A time or two he had come to town for his family
reunion, picking up his small son and daughter and taking
them along, but always disappearing again. Years would go by
with out so much as a word. They rarely ever knew where he
was, or what he was doing.
Today like all the other days of his life, his Dad was
absent. His father was not even here to bring comfort to his
own dying Mother. So I watched as he stood in the place of
his father. He was gentle and kind and compassionate. He was
still yet a boy; high school had not yet released him. He
had strength though and a caring sympathetic heart.
I stepped to his side, my own heart lunging to help. The
sound of death was nearing as it rattled from within her. I
had seen death, but it had never spoken to me; there was no
denying its voice. It was calling out loudly to the angels
and it was as near as my own breath. It scared me. We wanted
to help, we should help ??“ someone should help. The nurses
had even abandoned their patient. None of her family was
there to help with her crossing. Only he was there, her
grandson; and I held his hand.
???How sad, how pitiful.???
No one should meet his or her demise in a cold lonely room
alone. Where were those who really knew her? Those whose
hands she had held, those who had nursed at her breast,
those whose tears she had wiped, those who she had loved
through her life? Her husband had passed years before and
today only her grandson had come; and I held his hand.
As we left, his heart was heavy and mine cried as much for
him as for her. I think; it??™s strange that I can??™t remember
exactly, but I believe I feel in love with him that day. As
we took the elevator down, I felt the loneliness within him.
The same isolation in my own heart sprung forth and it was
then, I felt the merging of our souls.
He buried his grandmother, without his Father being there to
even morn her passing. His Dad missed seeing the man he??™d
become. But there was someone else that noticed - and I held
his hand.
* * I married that man; we??™ve been married for 44 years. I
now have Multiple Sclerosis and he holds my hand. Though we
were both in our teens in the above story; I knew a man when
I saw him.
My name is Betty King; I live with my husband Bill of 44
years in Phoenix AZ. I have publishing credits in a number
of mediums.
(c) 2002 by Betty A King |
