When Death Cuts In.
By: Matt Borjes
Tags: Growing Up, Loss, Mental Health, Death, Reflections

Me in my classic pudge ball phase and my grandfather.

To preface this piece, I have to address the issue of genuineness and the fact that it completely terrifies me. I am so terrified by the idea of coming across as a pretentious ass-hat that I often don’t voice what my inner monologue doles out. So please, when reading this bit of writing, please keep in mind that I am an inexperienced young man of twenty years.

Thank you.

This is going to come across a bit ageist, but isn’t it the goal of an old person to die? When reaching the senior years, the unspoken idea seems to be dragging it out as long as possible. Someone can live forever until they just can’t anymore. There will be warning signs, of course. Little ideas that pop up in your head as you look at your elderly relatives.

“Man, his hands are getting very bony.”

“He doesn’t speak with the same exuberance as before.”

“It sucks he can’t come along on the family trip this year, but hopefully next year he can.”

And slowly but surely, the image of this person changes in your mind.

I guess the best comparison would be the theory of slowly boiling a frog in water. The temperature rises so gently that the frog never even notices “Gee, it’s getting a bit hot in here,” until its brain is already a boiled egg.

This is what I experienced before losing my Grandfather.

All the obvious warning signs weren’t obvious at the origin.

The one I feel most internal rage at myself for is when he called out of the blue in February. He asked what I was up to and encouraged me to call more. I explained that I was very bad at remembering to call and I would love to speak more if he would simply call me. I would pick up anytime of day

if he called me. Please just call and I’ll answer.

I didn’t see him again until I was at the foot of his deathbed.

Part of me wants to say I never spoke to him again.

We exchanged words in the last few days of his life, but this was not the same man. He was sickly and often unable to vocalize his wants.

For the next three days, I catered to his every want or need.

I don’t hold any of this against the memory of my grandfather.

This was not my grandfather. This was a situation.

I went to work alongside my mother. We were later joined by my cousin.

For the first two days, my mother provided all the nurse care a hospice service could offer. I provided physical support when strength was needed and emotional support when my mother’s professional mask cracked.

I could see her going between the emotionally distanced smile known all too well by those in the service industry, to the honest face of a woman staring at her fading father.

Often, I would just lift the naked physical cage of my grandfather so my mother could adjust his pillows or wipe the feces from underneath. This is probably the strangest part for me. A few years ago, this man still loomed inches above me and now, I was cradling him like a child because he weighed just as much as my nine year old cousin.

After my cousin joined our task force, the three of us would take turns sitting by my grandfather. Comforting him & speaking to my grandmother who refused to leave his side in the bed.

He would take my hand and loosely grip it. I understood and gripped back much more firmly, allowing him to relax and save the bit of energy for whatever his body would need in the coming hours.

Usually this was sporadic talking. My uncle who was unable to process the inevitable often spoke loudly at my grandfather, asking if he was “good” multiple times, until one of us standing by stepped in or my grandfather was able to make a large enough mumble to satisfy his son.

For three days, I watched my grandfather slowly die in front of my eyes. Multiple times we thought “it” would finally happen. There would be some loud noise from the bedroom upstairs, everyone in the home would rush up to stand at the foot of his bed. Every time someone would shout or shake him awake again. It was painful to watch, not just in witnessing this dying man having his peace disturbed, but in knowledge that there would be more work.

For almost four days straight, my mother cared for my grandfather. I stayed over three nights on the couch in case she needed help. On the fourth, my mom sent me home. My uncle was supposed to come stay the night. Not wanting to protest, I quickly said goodbye to my grandmother and gave my grandpa a kiss on his head. He weakly gripped my hand one last time and I said I’d be back tomorrow.

You can already guess he passed that night. When I first started this piece, it was in the days after his funeral. Now that I’ve reached the end, we’re one week away from Christmas. It feels good to finally have it all written down. That’s really it. Usually I leave most of my projects unfinished, but I’m glad I gave this one an ending of sorts even though it’s technically still ongoing. I don’t wish to wait to do what I feel inspired to anymore. I guess that’s the lesson I have taken away from this experience. Sorry if it’s anticlimactic.

Dedicated to my poppy. I forgive you for eating my brussels sprouts while they were roasting in the oven at Thanksgiving last year. Love you.