December

I wrote this last year after my last living grandparent, my dad’s dad, died. Read at your own discretion re: descriptions of death. There are many practices for shepherding someone through that process. This essay is not an instructional text on that, but a personal experience.

He died in the morning. I was supposed to come the night before, but I didn’t. I was tired and wanted to clean my room. When I got the text from my dad, I thought, Damn, I should have been there. Then I thought, Be patient, and don’t have regrets. If I wait long enough, a reason appears. (Eventually, I realized it was better this way—to come after things had settled.)

They let his body stay until I got there. There was a chaplain, Margaret. She seemed like she really cared. It can’t be possible that she did. She had only just met my dad and me. Maybe she’s one of those people who cares about everyone as a natural baseline. I don’t understand that. Someone might think the same of me, though.

His door was closed, as if to announce that death was inside. People are probably used to that in a hospice place. The meaning of a closed door. I went in. The room felt different, radiant, dense, otherworldly. His face was beautiful in a way, like my dad had said in the car ride over. “His face hangs off his skull differently.” It was my first time seeing a dead body. I asked for some time alone. I bowed to him and touched my head to the floor. I fished my phone out of my puffer coat pocket. I said mantra and recited a special text to him. According to Buddhist experience, the mind lingers after the body is pronounced dead. I explained what was happening, and what I hoped for him. I saw the bardo, the place you go as life dissolves. The walls closing in, the earth shaking and crumbling, then you yourself collapsing, breaking apart. I felt a solidity about my own path and practice, that I had to work hard so I could find him in another iteration of life and help him. It stops being someone else’s responsibility. In that moment, it was a relief to decide to do it myself.

I held his hand and touched his head. I smoothed his hair. His hair was very soft, very white. I felt his cheek, then the other, then the first. He had a fine layer of stubble. He was soft in general. Gentle, glowing. Not scary at all. Only his mouth, ajar, teeth in a state of decay, but even that wasn’t anything. His eyes were open, though I imagined they were closing as I sat with him. I believe they did. I kept thinking I saw his chest moving with breath. It was a very convincing illusion. Hallucinating what was familiar. But his chest was hard, flat. I rubbed my hand over his heart. I placed my mala there and held it. I held his hand. I touched his head.

When my dad came back in and took a seat across the room from me, I couldn’t stop looking at my grandpa, who laid between us. He really was beautiful, like moonlight. The winter sun was soft. My dad lifted the shade a bit, but even then, we were mostly in the dark. We talked about his mom’s death, about family, death in general, this and that. Just conversation. His voice was hoarse. He told me news about his own health, test results he was waiting for. A biopsy in March. March? I said. Isn’t that quite far from now? With cancer, he said, you take your time. Today or 15 days from now, it’s all the same.

They’ll come in to take him to the funeral home when we’re ready, he said. They’re waiting on us. We could stay and watch, but I’d rather not.

We went to Trader Joe’s. Later, we watched a movie with George Clooney.