They say that speaking out one’s problems splits the pain, so forgive me for sounding emo for this post.

I’m in Yonkers, New York, working for my uncle’s company full time for the summer to get some cash. I have not had the benefit of the internet for the entire week, but I do finally get to see cable TV…it kinda sucks honestly. Anyway I’ve been living at my grandparents’ house and thought that it would be a good idea to learn how to pretty much work and cook and what not for college. But something made me feel like I’m not ready for the future at all anymore.

My grandfather is dying. He had been suffering from memory loss from old age for the longest time, and was recently hospitalized for a broken arm. We’re not sure if that’s what accelerated his decline, but now he has been reduced to a bed, frozen in place, save for the ocassional gasps for air that the connected oxygen tank can’t comfort. To make matters worse, the hospital couldn’t fix his arm because of his age and has “done all it could” to help him. I was not expecting that that would mean he would return home still stuck in that hospital bed, hooked to that oxygen, and bringing a somber aura to the house we just cannot get rid of. He is unable to do anything, and because of his age neither can we.

I know death is inevitable for everyone. It’s just hard to accept this type of death - dying without knowing your identity - because I’ve just never seen it before. Whenever one sees the person dying in movies and TV, the person may not have been able to both but they could still talk to their families about themselves dying. Otherwise they are killed so suddenly through violence or a stroke or something. But at least in all of these deaths the person still knows who they are - they have some identity and they know it.

I can’t tell if my grandfather knows who he is anymore. Even when he was in the hospital he had no idea why he was there. He couldn’t recognize my dad, his son, let alone me. He wouldn’t eat anything and would never remember if he was hot or cold.

I am scared. I don’t want to die not knowing what I enjoyed, accomplished…hell, even remembered. But I hate myself for fearing this…not because of the fear but because I feel so selfish from it. My grandfather worked tirelessly throughout his life, and all I can think about is how much I want to avoid the same final moments. My father and uncles all visited him frequently in the hospital, and my grandmother never left his side. My grandfather was the greatest Italian chef I had ever known, and the only English he said that I could always understand was “No Worry About.” But I worry for him, my grandfather, my family, myself…

I’m sorry, the reverend is here.