We hung in the limbo of a constant cloud of death. The day after of the aneurism, he was supposed to go peacefully. We spent the day in the waiting room, until they called the family in. I was the only one who didn’t go. By all means, he should have died then, but stubbornly held on for a decade. As the years went by, he had good and bad days. Near the end, he forgot us all. The slow decline of an alzheimer-like diagnosis, as his brain slowly left. It came to a point that I saw him last, and I told him it was okay. I was ready. We were going to be okay. A week later, my mom called and told me he would probably go in the next few hours. I packed a bag of mismatched clothes and drove to my hometown hours away. I made it to the room, my family was gathered around the bed, and I mentally thanked him for holding out long enough for me to finally say goodbye. I went home with my dad, and we didn’t make it through the door before my mom called and said he had passed. Almost two weeks later, I was sitting in a dim theater, watching a fictional character ask the last question I had for my grandpa.
Does it hurt, dying?
Quicker and easier than falling asleep.