Sunset

I'm jarred awake again as another nurse bustles into the room. I roll over painfully, my back complaining with each inch of movement. My head throbs slightly and my hips ache from the thin mattress. The small cot in the corner doesn't provide much in the way of comfort, but it's a place to rest. I say 'rest' because sleep seems elusive in this place no matter how hard I try. The constant beeps and hums of the machines blend with noise from the hall and the never ending parade of doctors, nurses, therapists, social workers, food servers, and housekeepers continues.

I glance around the room, scanning for the source of the most recent interruption. The room is too light to be considered dark, but too dark to be called light. We exist in a state of perpetual twilight where time is irrelevant and the outside world has faded away. In these endless hours time both races and stands still.

I see my grandfather, still sleeping. Whatever this intrusion is, it has not disturbed him, and for that I'm grateful. I watch him breathe for a moment, thankful that he is resting peacefully and thankful that he is still alive. Thankful that later this morning he will wake up. Maybe we'll talk, maybe we won't. Maybe I'll just sit and hold his and and enjoy being with him for this much longer.

The nurse leaves, having completed whatever task summoned her. I glance at the clock, 6AM, and decide to lay back down for a few more minutes. I'll probably not sleep, but maybe I'll gain strength for this journey. Each day blends into the next in this world which is both emotionally turbulent and outwardly calm.

My eyes never quite adjust to this lighting, somewhere between day and night - like a sunset. And like a sunset this time of transition for our family is both fleeting and drawn-out. We never quite settle into a daytime routine, but we can never truly relax into the peace of the night. We're always watching, always waiting, always wondering, always ready to manage the next step of the journey whether or not it's a step we want to take.

What this time has taught me is to savor it. Enjoy each moment that he is awake. Take the extra time that he needs to eat. Don't worry that we can't stay long if he comes with us. Have Christmas in his living room so he can be with us one more time, even if he is in a hospital bed. All too soon his sun will set and we'll be left to adjust to the darkness for the rest of our lives for once each sun has set, it will never rise again.

My grandfather died eight years ago today. Eight years, but it feels like both yesterday and forever.

I miss him.
Those words are inadequate.

My grandfather was a fixture in our family. A constant patriarch. Always present for Sunday dinners. He attended our basketball games, volunteered at his church, and enjoyed beach vacations with us. At Christmas he always wore his Santa Claus suspenders - the ones on which Santa's hat was green! We loved to share Schwann's ice cream together and eat seafood even though grandma didn't like it. He taught me the most obscure things and would call to tell me what he was watching on the discovery channel. He instilled in me a curiosity for life and a love of learning.

When I think back about all the years we spent together, the ones I miss most are the sunset. The quiet days sitting by his bedside. The crazy stories he would tell when we were alone. Climbing into that hospital bed with him and sitting behind him so that he could sit up. Bringing him a Wendy's frosty so we could share more ice cream. Talking and listening, but mostly just being. Being together. Like a pair of lovers sitting on a hill staring at a sunset. We shared a deep bond of being family and of being a part of one another's lives.

Even though that sunset has faded, the warmth continues every day of my life. I see him when I see an older man at the beach. I hear him when someone pronounces my name Er-rin. When I'm explaining something silly to my kids, I find him within myself.

The last gift he gave me was an ice cream scoop. He sent my grandmother and I to buy it on my birthday when he couldn't get out of bed anymore. We picked out one with a pale blue handle. It's strong and sturdy and when I pick it up, it's almost like holding his strong, sturdy hand. Every bowl of ice cream I eat is still shared with him.

Every sunset I see is still shared with him as well. Vibrant and beautiful right up to the end, and a lingering sense of longing after it's faded away. It's a natural part of a cycle complete. So relax and enjoy the sunsetting time . . .  don't dread the darkness that follows, but remember the beauty of the final rays.