by Terri Valerian

Created on: May 28, 2008

When I was six, my mother's Uncle John died. I remember being at the wake. I remember seeing the body, somewhat from afar. I remember being completely freaked out by it. Later, I was in the bathroom at the funeral home, alone in the stall, and I was sure he was watching me. He might even come get me. I thought about that a lot for a while. And then, it passed.

I was 16 or 17 when my maternal grandfather died. It's somewhat hard to fathom it now. We weren't that close, and yet we were. Even though I did not know him well, he was the first person I really loved to die. I cried for months about it.

I saw my grandparents often growing up, but my grandfather was quiet and somewhat stern, as a grandfather who was born around 1909 would be. He was a man who was used to being around my Polish Grandmother and her 8 or so sisters. He didn't say much. I didn't really begin to see who he was as a person until one of my mother's dear cousins said, "You can tell how much he loves you when he hugs you." I'm glad that from that point on, I made a special effort to hug him goodbye when we left. She had been right.

I know I was at least 16 because I remember I drove to the hospital alone. I heard Poison on the way in. Every Rose Has Its Thorn. Odd how something like that can stay with you. They were only letting one person at a time visit with him. He was not conscious, or so they said. I spent time in his room with him, talking to him in a way I had probably never done before. There is a freedom in talking to someone you don't expect to answer. And I sang to him. Every Rose Has Its Thorn. It was in my head. I watched the EKG machine. I was sure it was making a difference.

My Grandfather was in his early 80s and my Grandmother was as well. She went home to get some rest that night. We heard the nurses mutter that she should have stayed. But we knew better. My mother and my aunt and uncle and I were camped out there. In the wee hours of the morning, my mom and I went to Denny's. My aunt and uncle slept. That is when he left.

It was a similar scene as my stepfather was passing over. I have a brother, but he is always absent from these scenes. He hates hospitals. I don't mind. I can sit with the dying, apparently. My mother had already had heart problems when my stepfather began to die. I don't know how we knew he was going to die, but we knew. He had been sick on and off for many years.

It was late and my mother was curled up on a cot on the side of the hospital room. I had not been close with my stepfather. He was a hard man to be close to. Even his brothers and sisters seemed not to know him. The scene was somewhat the same as with my grandfather. Same people attending. I sat opposite my aunt and we each held one of his hands. He intermittently sputtered and made terrible sounds as he gasped for breath. We knew it would not be long. I woke my mother, who had forgotten where she was and was none too pleased at the awakening. I felt it unjust that I got yelled at by my mother when I woke her to tell her that her husband was dying. And then there it was.

The death rattle.

What came next was one of the more profound experiences of my life. I knew he was leaving. It was almost as if I could see it happening, but I saw nothing with my physical eyes. If I had, it would have been like the rolling up of his soul from his toes up his body and out the top of his head. And then it burst out in every direction for infinity. My hair stood on end. Freedom. Love. Home.

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