Pat Taub
GUEST POST BY MARGIE MARTIN CAMPBELL
I first encountered death when I was three. I watched my beloved Grandpa (Dad’s father) restlessly walking the floor, then sitting on the couch only to return to his pacing. I had noticed he hadn’t eaten, so I suggested to Mom that she fix him something. I wondered why she had such a strange look on her face and kept drying the same plate while watching out the window.
We lived on a farm where our only “modern” convenience was electricity. She had no way of calling for help. With a three-year-old and a dying man in the house, all Mom could do was wait for my dad to come home from work.
A small child kissing her dying grandfather evokes the author’s experience.
When Daddy came home, I could see that he was trying to calm Grandpa. They were sitting on the couch together when suddenly Grandpa’s head dropped to his chest with his long, white beard spread out on his dark green sweater. I don’t remember the rest of the day, but years later, Mom told me that I sat by the bed where they had laid Grandpa and told him the story of angels tending Jesus after his temptation. I had seen the account in my picture bible.
The next time I saw death, I was 15. Granny, Mom’s grandmother, was in the hospital. She looked as white as the gown and sheets that covered her. She had tubes going in and out of her body. “I don’t know why the good lord just don’t take me,” she said to me.
An elderly woman close to death
Granny had lived a full life. She was a matriarch with seven children, many grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and one great-great-grandchild. She was ready for whatever came next. The next day Granny got her wish while some of the family kept watch in her room while she slept quietly.
Then Granny exhaled intensely, straightened out her right leg, and lay quiet. I realized what had happened when my aunt whispered, “Oh, my.” We quietly walked away, leaving behind the one being that had held us all together.
When I remember these deaths of people who helped shape me into the person I am, I think about my own death. Did I learn anything from them that will help me “cross over”? I used to wonder whether an “old” person woke up wondering, “Is this the day?” I don’t really find myself wondering that because I know it’s coming in 10, 20, 30 years. I’m not sure I fear it.
A woman contemplating her death
I dread losing my husband and being alone. No children, my choice. Very few family members left. Friends are beginning to die. I’m getting older. When I was younger, and the entirety of my life lay ahead, there was always time to “do it tomorrow.” Perhaps putting off our dreams is the greatest inequity of youth, preventing our living a full life.
The third time I saw death was about 20 years later. I stood with my husband, his mother, aunt, and uncle, watching his grandmother’s breathing become more labored. This was the first time seeing her. She had dementia and had been in a nursing home years before I met her grandson. She had been there long enough to endear herself to the staff who talked about how feisty she had been. When my grandmother-in-law breathed her last breath, a nurse straightened her blanket and whispered, “Good night, Rosie.”
I hope when my time does come, I will have people that care enough to keep the “night watch” with me. I do have to chuckle at one memory. Previously, Rose’s eyes had locked on me, and I wondered whether she was thinking, “Who the hell is that!”
