"Lonely in a Crowded Room" (Life Sketch)

“The fear really hits you. That's what you feel first. And then it's the anger and frustration. Part of the problem is how little we understand about the ultimate betrayal of the body when it rebels against itself,” – Charles Bronson

It was a spring afternoon in 2002, when the world became grey, when I first learned of life’s decay. Never before had I considered that a time would come where the ground beneath my feet would shatter; the walls of security would collapse, the waves of shock would crash over me, and the word of truth would strike like lightening, leaving me dead as a fallen leaf.

                Cancer. The word echoed like a blaring drum. “He has…cancer,” my mother repeated between trembling lips. Her hands clenched her crumpled tissue, her knuckles turning white.

                I shook my head fervently, biting my bottom lip until I could taste the saltiness of the blood.

                “I’m sorry,” she said as she reached out her hand to brush my cheek tenderly, but I swatted away the comfort of my poor mother as darkness clouded my eyes. Captured by the chains of confusion, the devil overtook me; he took hold of my broken heart. Overcome with a sea of emotions, I reached blindly for the tissue box, and then with all of my strength, I threw it across the living room; the furniture was next. Was it rage, sorrow, or simply fear that caused me to behave so? Only God knows.

As seconds turned to minutes, and minutes turned to hours, my knees finally gave way in the disheveled remains of what once was our living room. And in that darkened moment, when the afternoon sun peaked past the curtains and a lone bird’s cry joined the elegy of my mother’s sobs, all I could scream to heaven and hell, or to whoever would listen, was, “no… no… no...”

Spring turned into summer, and summer into fall. In all of my days, never had I seen someone fight so valiantly for life. My grandfather smiled even when his entire body shivered and ached. He smiled through his treatment, even when the last hair fell from his head. His smile never ceased, even when the doctors said, “Your time may be coming to an end.” That smile was my lantern, guiding me through the darkened woods. Because of him, his warmth and his love, I learned I could smile too.  

                Then, in the winter of 2002, I learned what it meant to be inexpressibly happy. My grandfather’s tumors were shrinking, and his chemotherapy reduced the cancer cells swimming in his blood. The life in his cheeks began to resurface; we rejoiced for he had won the battle that critics claimed he would lose by now. For once, I experienced a feeling of ecstasy; some describe it as floating on a cloud, or flying across the sky. That Christmas, all I knew for certain, was my grandfather – my teacher, my best friend, my hero – was alive, and I was truly and utterly happy.

                Unfortunately, life betrayed us in the new year. I stood with my back against the clammy hospital hallway wall. The smells of sanitation flooded my senses; nurses scurried past me with the overhead announcer echoing codes of the rainbow, especially the color blue. Apathy surrounded me; rather, it suffocated me with cold, abrasive hands.  My eyes opened to reality, never to shut again. I took a deep breath as I begged my feet to enter his hospital room. The machines surrounding his bed deafened me; I barely recognized this ill man, quivering from the return of his cancer, cursing its invasive spread. Nevertheless, beneath his gauntly features, yellow-stricken skin, and strained, heavy breaths, I could see the man I knew, feel his warmth; he was still the hero I loved.

                January 31, 2003. The afternoon sun gleaned through the cracks of the window blinds, casting a warm glow upon the wooden oak floors of my grandfather’s room. He lay in his own bed, in his own room, where he wished to spend his final days. I stood over his bed, and he simply smiled at me. In that moment, I could barely breathe; I could not trust myself to speak as my whole body trembled with fear. All I could do was hold him. Can you tell how much I love you? Can you tell how much you mean to me?

                “I love you,” I whispered. “I always will.”

                With one last squeeze, I quickly walked out of the room as the water dam broke.  I collapsed in the shadows of the hallway, tears streaming across my face. My whole body convulsed as I curled up, hugging my knees as I rocked back and forth.

                February 1, 2003– The morning where my grandfather took his last breath.  The day where I would pick the pictures of him that would be shown at his funeral, and the day where I learned that no amount of gifted casseroles could solve the sadness. The night where I learned what it meant to miss someone, to be lonely in a crowded room.