Goodbye — Sullivan
Is she killing him on purpose? Is this normal? It shouldn't be happening like this. Would my mom really let him die? Maybe. Their relationship was never good. I hear her voice echo in my head, after all the times she screamed and stomped around the house yelling that she “wants him gone” and “he can’t live here anymore.” I remember trying to explain her anger to my grandfather, trying to make sense of it for him. No luck, he would never understand. He couldn't. He had dementia, and no matter how many times and ways I explained, it was like talking to a wall. But I am sane. Probably the most sane person in my house. It was my responsibility to take action. I was in charge. This was not an unfamiliar feeling. My sister, Lorelei left for college when I was six, and my other sister Allison followed three years later, leaving my little brother and I alone with my parents and my grandfather.
My grandfather moved in with us when I was eight. At first, I was thrilled. I thought he’d be an extra set of hands, someone to make dinner, someone who could drive Luke, my little brother and I to practice. I had no idea what was coming. The truth was; My grandfather had Aphasia, a kind of dementia. Slowly, I watched him lose his words and ability to understand them. As he weakened, I grew and he became another responsibility of mine.
I was terrified we weren't doing enough for my grandfather. He was clearly dying, and my sister had just moved, leaving me as the oldest kid in the house. I felt the responsibility had been dropped solely on me. Life or death. Could I be charged with murder if I do something wrong? How is this legal? I was just a kid pretending to be an adult, trying to navigate something far bigger than I could handle. So finally, I called my older sister. I called my dad. I told them everything, hoping they would take it seriously, hoping someone would step in and make it feel less like I was the only one holding it all together. And so, eventually more adults got involved and more doctors called. Soon it became clear that there was nothing to fix or do. He was dying. In a strange way this truth brought me relief. The pressure I felt to “save” him, or make the right call was gone. But that didn't mean things got easier.
As I was walking out the door to catch the bus, my mom stopped me.
“You need to say goodbye to your grandfather,” she said softly,
“He may not make it through the day” these words stung. I knew it was coming, we all did, but hearing it out loud made it feel real. Too real.
“Go say goodbye”
“Okay.” My feet felt heavy as I walked towards his bedroom, with a clock ticking in the back of my mind. I am going to miss the bus. But wait. How do you say goodbye? Before I knew it, my eyes were pouring out water, but I was not making any sounds. No sobs, no gasps, just salty and silent. I stood there, staring at him. Pale and thin. His breaths were loud, but not frequent. As I turned to leave, I saw my cousin standing there. We locked eyes. I watched as her eyes filled and without a word, we stepped into eachothers arms. I was suddenly crying into someone I barely knew. But at that moment she was not a stranger. That hug stitched something between us that had never existed before. And then, just like that, I was running out the door, wiping tears off my cheeks, with a shaky breath to make the bus.
The next week was nothing but waiting. I came downstairs in the morning to see the warm winter sun pouring in through the deck doors creating deformed squares all over the place. Each step I took I felt the cold floor, as I stumbled to put on my sweatshirt while turning the corner. Is he alive? I can never tell. I don't know how my parents would react, as we have been waiting for a week. It has been a week of goodbyes. A week thick with the smell of death. A week of watching him weaken. A week of family visiting. A week of wondering if I would return home to death. A week of tears that wouldn't stop. A week of nurses in and out. A week full of funeral planning. How much longer?
Today was a long day at school. I came home, greeted my fluffy dog at the door, and turned the corner to look through the kitchen. Panic. For a moment, I had forgotten. My grandfather had not touched a puzzle in over a week. The last puzzle he finished was just sitting on the round table. The chair with a flattened pillow for extra cushion, just for him, sits untouched. The puzzle room is silent now. It was only a puzzle room because of his puzzles. What do I call it now?
The marble table is cold to the touch and a chill runs up my arm, raising goosebumps all over me. A brochure catches my eyes. “Dee Funeral Home and Cremation Services” printed in soft blue letters. I looked away quickly. My mom and her sister had been planning the funeral all day.
“Sarah, do you have a black dress?” my mom asks. I stare down at the table, afraid to look up.
“I don’t know?” But I did know—I didn't have one.
“Okay well, make sure you find one, because the service will be in the next few weeks.” But he was not dead yet. Why are we planning out his death on a timeline? It feels wrong to shop for a funeral outfit before there's even a body to bury? It feels like planning for a murder. Like death on purpose.
The urge to cross my legs was eating me alive. My butt ached. I had been sitting on a hard cold chair for over an hour straight. Finally, I pushed myself out from under the desk and crossed my legs. In front of me, a blank MCAS text box stares back. To my left, I have a freshly sharpened No. 2 pencil and two empty sheets of lined paper. To my right I have a water bottle filled with fresh, crispy water, a new pack of gum, and a handful of hershey kisses. In my hands, I hold an orange Nedo, full of shaving cream. I squeezed it hard. My fingernails digged into the rubbery surface, leaving tiny crescent-shaped dents. The room was filled with the steady clicking of keyboards. I begin my first sentence “Throughout thi-” people were at the door. I glanced up and my teacher walked over as slowly as she possibly could. It's for me. The principal and my guidance counselor are standing outside. Panic scrambles in my stomach. I quickly run through the last names of everyone around me, searching for someone, anyone who might share the same guidance counselor—no one. It's me. He must be dead. I watched through the small rectangular window as they talked to my teacher. She turned to look straight at me. I didn't even try to pretend like I was not watching. The door clicks open. Minutes seemed to pass before she finally reached my desk.
“You are being dismissed.”
“Okay… what do I do with my test”
“I’ll check.” She leaves again. I sit there, my legs are now uncrossed, bouncing off the ground, and tapping the obnoxiously low desk causing a rattle.
“Just press finish.” I nod and begin picking up all my gum and hershey kiss wrappers, but the crackling feels so loud. The walk to the front office was long and oddly slow, my guidance counselor was beside me the whole time. Too afraid to ask any questions, I stayed silent. Finally,
“Your sister, Allison, is coming to pick you up.”
“Okay, thank you.” I responded.
I sat in the office, waiting. Why had nobody texted me? Why is nobody responding? I opened the ring app on my phone, wondering if I would see a body bag leave my front door. I saw my sister and her boyfriend leave at 9:43, but it was now 10:35. Why was it taking them so long to grab me? I kept scrolling fuller into the morning until I saw my dad at the front door talking to the nurse as she rushed to him. Before I could hear what they were saying the principal walked in and said
“Your older sister and I think your little brother are here”
“Okay, thank you.” An upperclassman coming in for the delayed start holds the door for me as I walk out. Allison opens her arms for a hug. I didn't want a hug. I wanted answers. I wanted to know. But the moment she touched me my eyes filled. I instantly pulled away, aware that I was still on campus and couldn't bear the thought of anyone seeing me like that.
We all waited on the couch. We were waiting for him to die. Which sounds horrible but that's what was happening. My siblings and I sat side by side, watching “Outdoor Boys” on youtube. We all took turns taking naps and made around 20 grilled cheeses for each other. The whole day felt like we were holding our breaths waiting for something that never came. The day passed. Nothing happened. Suddenly it was late, and I had homework to finish because I couldn't miss more of MCAS as I had no reason.
Every night was the same routine. Before I went to bed I said goodbye to my grandfather in case he did not make it through the night. Just like I had done every night before, I paused at the door and slowly pushed it open, just enough to let the hallway light spill in a stretch across the bed. I’d stand there silent, still, holding my breath, hoping to see any type of movement on the blanket that lay on top of him. I was searching for the tiniest rise and the softest fall. My heart would pound so hard it felt like a distraction to the construction needed spot movement. But every time I saw it move even just a little, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I'd seen on Tik Tok that 88% of men receive flowers for the first time at their funeral. I didn't want to be the case for my grandfather, so I bought a bouquet of pink, yellow and orange flowers and placed them beside his bed, not knowing if he'd notice but needing to believe that on some level he would feel it. I continued on with my routine, reaching out for the dark brown canvas chair he's had for probably more than 20 years and wheeled it over to his bedside. Each night I stayed longer as I got more and more comfortable there. Allison joined me, she stood next to me as I sat and we just watched him sleep. His face was calm, his breathing was soft. Then, suddenly, his arm lifted slowly into the air, hovering there. Allison and I jumped back and ran to the door of the room, as we hadn't seen him move in days. It was like he was reaching for something we couldn't see. His eyes never opened. We thought he may have been having another hallucination. But now, I can't help but think maybe he wasn't hallucinating at all. Maybe he was reaching out for us. Maybe all he wanted was to hold our hands, to feel someone there. And we didn't give that to him. We were too afraid. It's a moment I will forever wish I took a step forward instead of back.
It had been days. I was in my room, blinds shut, the only light coming from my twinkle lights that hang on my window sill. I was sitting on my bed working on my English project when my mom opened my door. I felt it before she said anything. I didn't cry, I didn't move, I just stared into the distance. There was now a dead body in my house.
Sullivan is a sophomore in high school and a first-time author who enjoys playing soccer, going on runs, and spending time with friends. She hopes to one day run the Boston Marathon. Additionally, she is passionate about travel and looks forward to exploring new places outside of her small town.