In Passing

Squinting against the pale luminescent light from the overhead fixture, Theresa’s eyes traced over the prominent laugh lines she had grown accustomed to seeing on her grandfather’s face during family gatherings.  He would always come prepared with a joke learned at the VFW, but break into uncontrollable laughs midway through the telling.  It was always impossible to discern the punch line between his wallops of laughter.  Then she focused on the ones she saw when he was frustrated, the lines across his brow that tightened while he’d yell at whichever political figurehead dared speak against military cuts, or when he “discussed” the current state of American affairs with her brother Paul- whom Pop’s referred to as a ‘hippie’. 

Those defining characteristics were now just wrinkles, no longer offering any indication of how remarkable his personality was.  Still, she had wanted to use the time she had, this one last chance to memorize everything about him before it was too late. Theresa had come up with the idea to pull the light-blue reclining chair closer to her grandfather’s bed so she could sit in comfort and hold his hand after several grueling hours of sitting on a metal folding chair from the nurse’s station.  Physically, it made the time she spent gazing at those well-worn groves on his face more tolerable.  Emotionally, she felt as though she was just a moment away from imploding into a large hysterical mass of screaming and tears.  Theresa found that waiting for someone to take their last breath reeked havoc on the nerves.

Despite her inner turmoil she couldn’t help but feel that watching her grandfather die was somehow less dramatic than she had imagined.  There were no frantic doctors or nurses rushing about trying to provide effective treatment like one would see on those fast paced TV shows, no machines creating a loud electrical hum; no loud beep to indicate whether his heart had decided to take another beat.  The only hint, aside from the well disguised hospital bed, that this was a room for the sick or dying and not a hotel suite, was the simple, silent oxygen tank coveting the spot where a nightstand would be.  All Theresa could do to tell he was alive was listen to the wet rattle every exhale produced and watch the ragged rise and fall of her grandfather’s chest underneath his patchwork quilt.  It was sixty-three years prior that her late grandmother, Bessie, had given that same quilt to her love, Jacob, as a groom’s gift.  It was only fitting it was with him now; he had slept with that quilt everyday since her passing five years before.  Theresa wanted to close her eyes and imagine her grandparents as they were on their wedding day- happy, in love, and most importantly young, vital and alive- but she was afraid to close her eyes for longer than a second.  She was beyond exhausted, and if sleep got the best of her she wouldn’t be able to listen to his breathing.

“Watching him like that is only going to drive you crazy,” her father had said several hours earlier. He had pulled her to the doorway to her grandfather’s room, which was as far as Theresa would venture.  “You need to just go outside for a little bit and get some fresh air.”    Her grip on sanity was, at best, held together by a tiny fraying ribbon.  The relationship she and Pop’s shared was unlike anything she had with her parents of even her grandmother.  They were the best of buds, she liked to say, and watching him go through the final months of his life had been hellish. It had only taken twenty minutes for her to arrive at her grandfather’s bedside once the call came in shortly before three in the morning, and the thought of him dying before she had a chance to get to him had nearly pushed her over the edge.  Theresa knew getting a little air was a wise suggestion.

However, wise or not, Theresa did not go any further than the doorway of his hospice room.  At least from there she could still hear what was then the rhythmic inhale and exhale of his breath.  Several hours ago it uncannily resembled the legendary snoring Pop was infamous of. 

Hearing it brought memories of the summer she was six, when he had taken her- ‘My favorite girl’ Pop would call her- camping. She had laid eyes wide-open most of the night, in her Little Mermaid sleeping bag, desperately trying to be brave for her Pop. Only his snores were terrifying and Theresa was convinced that he was attracting forest animals.  Namely bears, an idea put there but her older brother. 

“Better watch out,” Paul had said, in a fit of jealously, moments before she climbed into the cab of Pop’s Chevy.  He had been caught on the roof of Pop’s woodshed and grounded, therefore unable to go with them.  “Bears have sharp teeth and they love to eat little kids.  ‘Specially blonde little babies like you.” 

Every twig that cracked during the night sent her into another mini terror-spiral.  Theresa was certain the bears had surrounded the tent, and that she could smell the stink of their breath as it drifted into the tent.  She knew their teeth were sharp and waiting to take a bite out of her feet. Pop had awoken to find her sniffling, curled fetal position and fighting back tears. He hadn’t laughed when she explained her bear theory.  Pop never laughed at her. Not like Paul did, or her dad.  Instead Pop had sat up and pulled her sleeping bag closer to his.

“You’ve got a good point there Tess,” he had said and patted the top of her head.  “I’ll tell you what; you close those pretty little eyes and I’ll stay up and make sure no bears come sniffing around this tent.  Sound good?”  Exhausted, but satisfied that Pop was on alert, she had fallen asleep.  With Pop she was always safe.

Now his breaths were far from steady but there was a faint hint of a snore, a fraction of the monstrous bellow she remembered from that camping trip.  Every once in a while a quick snarl would escape from his throat.  She listened and when another one came Theresa leaned in close, her lips millimeters away from his ear.  “Hey Pop.  I think I hear some bears coming.” 

He didn’t move.  Theresa hadn’t really expected him too.  She had given up believing hours before that he would miraculously jolt awake and give her some profound words of wisdom.  That was the kind of tear-twister that only happened in the movies.  She thought of ‘Terms of Endearment’ and how Debra Winger had been awake right up until the end and how she gave Shirley MacLaine that little wave.  Theresa thought Hollywood was full of idiots- death was never that smooth.  Goodbyes weren’t always that simplistically poignant.  Sometimes you walked out the door with a little wave because you thought there would be tomorrow.  The morning nurse had explained that, given the large dose of pain medication he had been taking to make it through the day, his liver had begun to shut down which was flooding his body with toxins and preventing the necessary absorption of oxygen to keep him conscious.  Pop wasn’t going to wake back up.  Despite knowing that, Theresa couldn’t help but whisper to him every few minutes and offer up the most mundane chit chat just in case. 

“You’re being silly,” Paul said.  Until Paul spoke, Theresa had forgotten anyone else was in the room.  He was awaking from a four hour nap and monopolizing the matching couch to her recliner on the other side of Pop’s bed.  “He can’t hear you.”

“You don’t know that,” she snapped back.  One of the pamphlets about the impending signs of death she found in the lobby (printed on glossy paper that was in the same soothing blue as the bedroom furniture) during his admittance had said that the last of the senses to go was hearing.  Despite Paul’s pessimism she was going to keep talking to Pop, just in case.  “What time is it?”

He glanced down at his watch.  “It’s almost midnight.  Did Dad and Uncle Michael leave?”

Theresa snorted.  “They left around ten.  Said they’d be back tomorrow after church.”  In spite of the dozens of visitors Pop had that day, none had remained but Theresa and Paul.  Then again, after bearing witness to his rapid decline, Theresa couldn’t say she really blamed any of them.

“You know he could linger like this for days,” Paul said as he stood up and stretched his arms upward.  “Grandma lasted almost a week.”

Theresa brought Pop’s cool hand, calloused from a lifetime of carpentry, up to her mouth and kissed the top of his hand.  “Grandma had a stroke- she’d been healthy otherwise.  He’s been sick a long time.”  She shook her head.  “I really don’t think he has much left.”

         Paul stood on the opposite side of the bed and briefly touched Pop’s forehead, watching as his labored breathing continued.  From the expression on Paul’s face Theresa could tell that he believed the same as she.  “He’d rather we all be somewhere else instead of watching this anyway.”

         Theresa wanted to disagree with Paul- it was what she did best in the twenty-eight years she’d been his little sister- but she couldn’t.  Pop had been adamant during his illness that he didn’t want his family fawning over him as he died.

         “You all have lives and obligations. No one should spend their free time having to watch some old coot die,” he had said the night before as Theresa gathered up her belongs to head home.  She looked around the room she had spent the last hour decorating.  She wanted him to be surrounded by some tokens of his life and so she, as best she could, hung pictures of their family taken throughout the span of his eighty-two years along the walls.  Shoved to the corner of the room three massive green Mylar balloons gently swayed back and forth with the message ‘Get Well”, dropped off by one of her cousins who obviously had no idea what terminal bone cancer meant.  She briefly thought about taking them outside and stamping on them until every last bit of helium exploded into the atmosphere.

         “Do you really think fawning is the best word to use?  Maybe offering a comforting presence fits a little better?”

         “I’m serious.  Just let them call you,” Pop replied, waving his hand as if it were no big deal.  “It hurts watching someone go…I don’t want you to have to experience it.” She knew he spoke of her grandmother.  He had nearly kept a constant vigil at her bedside.  Theresa looked down at him and was surprised how much weight he had lost.  His face was sunken in and his color was slightly off, bordering on yellow.  He had spent most of the evening dozing on and off and yet the bags under his eyes only helped amplify his continued level of exhaustion.  The move into the hospice facility the day before had taken the last bit of fight out of him.  Pop had given up- ‘throwing in the towel’ he had told the admitting social worker, who had chuckled right along with him- and the very idea was terrifying to her.  Carefully, she sat on the edge of his bed, trying her best not to jostle him too much; every little movement brought a fresh new wave of pain.  Theresa leaned forward and rested her head on his chest and did her best to swallow down the overwhelming urge to cry.  Still, her voice still cracked when she next spoke. 

“Don’t…keep me from you.”

         He had patted her head then, much like he had done when she was a little girl.  “Hey, hey. Stop now, my favorite girl.  It’s not going to be so bad.  Everybody dies.” A tiny moan escaped her lips but he kept going.  “You’ll be sad, but I promise, you’ll be okay.”  She could help but silently cry into his chest, her shoulders betraying her action.  He kept patting her head and after a while he spoke again.  “Stop that now.  Believe me, there’s no use crying over…”

         “I know, I know…over an old coot like you.”

         “You know me like a book,” he had said, a slight levity in his voice that made Theresa smile.  She sat back up and a few more tears escaped her eyes.  Pop clasped his hands over hers, grimacing even as he made that tiny movement.  “I’m really going to miss you.”

         That was all Theresa could think about now; how Pop had said he was going to miss her.  How strange of him to say that.  He would be gone, where exactly ‘gone’ was she wasn’t sure, but in this physical world, where Theresa would still be alive and residing, Pop would cease to be.  She’d be fully aware and acutely experiencing the ramifications of Pop’s death and yet he was the one who going to miss her.  Theresa already was yearning for his comforting pat on the head and soothing voice, and Pop technically was still alive- she couldn’t imagine how much worse it was going to get for her.  Theresa should have been the one to tell Pop how much she was going to miss him.  Instead she had just kissed his cheek, said goodnight and left.  She had no way of knowing in a few short hours he would lapse into a coma.  Theresa didn’t know there would be no more time to explain to Pop exactly what she would miss about him. 

That was why she wanted to eat up every last second she could with him, while he still could be dreaming; while he could still possibly be aware that she was there for him.  That was why she leaned forward and said “I love you Pop,” every few minutes, because in that dream he could be having he might hear her and might understand how much he was already missed.  The idea that soon she would not longer hear that wet rasp of breath and sporadic snore was almost too much for Theresa to grasp.  Because that would mean he was gone- forever gone and not just lapsed-into-a-coma gone.  Theresa had acclimated herself to the sound of his unsteady breathing for quite a while but had no idea how she would process the silence that would come after.

         “I’m going to put on a movie,” Paul said. 

         “Do you really think that’s appropriate?”

         “More appropriate than Uncle Michael’s girlfriend putting on QVC.”

         Theresa laughed, an honest laugh, at the memory of Paul’s shocked face when Beth, Uncle Michael’s girlfriend, asked to use his cell phone to place an order.  “I guess it is.”  She then told Paul where she had stashed the DVD box she had brought from Pop’s condo.

         “Why does Pop have a copy of ‘The Hangover’,” Paul asked, his eye brow raised.

         Theresa smiled.  “There was a lot more to Pop than Westerns and war flicks.  Put that one in.  I don’t think I can stand gunshots and death right now.” Paul started the movie and for the first time that day, Theresa found herself focusing on something other than Pop’s impending passing. Ten minutes later her stomach began to growl.  Loudly.  Startled, Paul looked over.

         “You never ate!” 

         “I wasn’t hungry,” she had said, which was the truth.  She had been so focused on Pop’s she hadn’t realized a full day without food had passed.  Paul indicated he had put his leftovers from his jaunt to Denny’s in the common room fridge.  “If I go, could you just sit right here?  So he’s not alone.”

         She expected a laugh, or a snarky comment, but instead Paul nodded.  Shakily, she stood.  Before leaving she gently caressed the side of Pop’s face.  “I’ll be back in a little bit.”



         The hallway was painted a soft beige color, its overhead lights brighter than what was in the patient rooms.  What Theresa noticed most was the silence- there was no impeding death rattle out there.  Most of the doors were closed; only the empty rooms stood open.  Theresa tried to remember if they had been occupied during Pop admittance, aware for the first time that she was not the only person in the facility suffering a great personal trauma.  Just knowing that brought her a measure of comfort and solidarity.  She passed a young woman seated behind the nursing station who smiled at her but did not question where she was going- there was a lot of freedom for patients and families at this hospice house. 

In the guest commons a large flat screen TV was turned on to Nick at Night, and Theresa heard the voice of Chandler Bing yell “Oh My God!” as she walked by.  She wondered if he caught a glimpse of her zombie-like appearance.  A tray of chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin and what appeared to be fruit filled shortbread cookies sat on a long rectangular table under the TV.  Theresa randomly grabbed one and shoved it into her mouth as she made her way to the fridge.  She was so ravenous she wasn’t quite sure which cookie she had actually eaten. 

She easily found the Styrofoam container that belonged to Paul.  It would have been hard to miss- across the top, written in black Sharpie, was the name Paul Spinelli, PA.  She made a mental note to mock Paul about his need to broadcast his occupation to anyone that would listen, or in this case, anyone who dared retrieve a soda from the fridge. She was imagining the look on Pop face, how he would roll his eyes in mock disgust (he was extremely proud of Paul’s accomplishments) when Theresa realized that she would never get the chance to share this with him.  It was the start of a lifetime of events that Pop would never know about.  Tears began to fall freely down her checks.

         She brought the contents of the container, unheated, to the couch that was in front of the TV.  As she cried Theresa devoured the remnants of Paul’s burger.  She made a return trip to the fridge and retrieved a premade hoagie, a soda and then stopped by the cookie table, this time pausing long enough to select a shortbread cookie.  She flopped back down on the couch, still crying but eating what turned out to be a chicken salad sandwich with more control.  In front of her Chandler and Phoebe were looking at a glass display of engagement rings.  Theresa watched the television, the salt from her tears stinging her eyes.  Pop would never see another rerun, she thought.  He would never walk, talk, drink a soda, or eat a cookie again.  By the time the cookie and soda were gone, Theresa eyes were heavy from tears.  Trying to muster the energy to stand she leaned her head back, took a deep breath and closed her eyes.



         “Excuse me?  Theresa?  Are you Theresa Spinelli?”

         Theresa snapped her head forward, briefly unaware exactly where she was or that she had fallen asleep.  In front of her was the woman she recognized from the nurses station.  Then it struck her.

         “What’s wrong?  What happened?”

         The nurse touched Theresa shoulder.  “Your brother is looking for you.”

         Theresa jumped up and pushed passed the nurse, running a full sprint toward Pop’s room.  As she rounded the corner she saw Paul standing in the doorway.

         “Where did you go?”

         “I fell asleep.  Is he…” she asked, not because she didn’t know the answer but because she hoped she was wrong. 

         On the TV, Alan and his wolf pack were standing in the desert with that Chinese man, who, it turned out, had not kidnapped their Doug.  Theresa remembered how Pop had leaned forward and slapped his knee during this part.  Only he didn’t laugh now.  Pop lay as he had when she left over an hour before. Only now there was no rise of his chest.  His quilt rested peacefully atop his withered body.  She stood there watching, waiting, to see if maybe he might make a final gasp. Nothing happened.  There was no more labored rasp filling the air- just silence.  These were her first moments alone in a world without Pop; the moments she feared would break her.  She waited for her sanity to escape her, and yet after several moments she realized it didn’t.

         Paul walked over and stood by the foot of the bed.  She saw him look back at her, waiting for some kind of reaction.  Theresa sat back down in the recliner.  She began to think of all the people they need to call, of the arrangements that needed to be made.  She thought of their camping trip and the bears; of Pop working in his shop and his calloused fingertips.  She remembered how Pop had looked when they last spoke, how tired and in so much pain.  Theresa found herself crying again, and that was okay.  Pop had told her she was going to be sad.  She remembered the pamphlet, and how it said hearing was the last sense to go.  “Don’t worry,” she said, brushing a strand of Pop’s hair off his brow. “We’re going to be okay.”