Clench

The picture is old – I was barely a human when it was taken. I was just a drooling mass of sweet-smelling jelly rolls with two large, kewpie-doll hazel eyes staring out at the world, balancing on a young man’s knee. The young man is smiling, smiling so hard that it seems as though he was drunk in Panama. His face is framed by thick black glasses and his hair is swept up in a fresh part. Next to this young man is an older man, beaming, his long nose regally standing out above his own ridiculous smile. This older man is portly, in a life-well-lived and jolly fashion. He seems to be ecstatic to be a part of this photograph, alive and healthy and joyous. Today, this is not the photograph.     

I stand, stationary, across the room from his bedside. The extra, happy girth has melted away over the years, and he is now pale gray and pink flesh wrapped around a skeleton, his veins tracing the flow of old pain. His royal nose is attached to two tubes, each cycling oxygen from a bubbling device placed above his adjustable headboard. There is no smile now; His mouth is set in a rigid, solid line. His eyes are no longer twinkling, but are now creased with an ache of too many years. He lies in bed, a deflated version of his younger self, and I cannot move.

My father turns to leave the room, to find the doctor that has been attending to my grandfather. He is also older – his hair is flecked with gray and white now, the part is no longer fresh, but rather a staple in his appearance. His glasses are made with thicker lenses but thinner frames, and they sit in front of eyes that are struggling to maintain their courage. He is not smiling.

Now it is just me and my grandfather and a room full of wires, tubes, computers, toilets with railings, catheters, stethoscopes, pillows and the sterile smell of looming death. This is not the picture at all. I’m large now, twenty-six years old, a man by law and by nature. I am engaged, out of college, about to start a new job in a new state. I have been around the world, stared down wild animals, walked through vacant and soulless city streets in the dead of night, but right now I feel as blubbery as a baby. My eyes are welling up and my throat tightens. I know that as soon as we arrive home I will crawl into my room, find a dark corner, and cry until my head aches.

The photograph is now sitting by his bedside, for what reason, I don’t know. I don’t know if he can see without his glasses or through the fog of painkillers. Then he lifts his head and sees me, standing just inside the doorway, dumber than a coat rack, and he motions very weakly for me to come closer. In my mind I am gripped by a panicking fear that he is about to say farewell to me and that I am the last person to see him alive. I hesitate, again standing stationary as my stomach clenches. He motions again. I walk slowly, breathing in the horrible mix of stale human stench and cleaning supplies.

“Can I get you anything? Do you need the nurse?” My voice comes out croaky and broken, and I know he can tell I’m fighting my emotions. I curse myself for not being stronger.

“No… But you have to understand… Thirty years from now, your dad could be… Where I am,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper. My throat catches and I feel a warm stream tumbling down my cheek. In my mind I deny his words: my dad is a stronger man than he was, will always be more youthful, will always desire to live all the life he is able to… but still. What if my grandfather is correct?

The door creeks and my dad re enters the room. I feel his hand settle onto my shoulder and he asks how we’re doing. In my mind I tell him that I’m a coward and my grandpa is dying, so how is he doing? I don’t say it aloud. I can’t – my voice won’t work and my eyes sting.

We stay another several minutes in awkward silence, the symphony of electronics softly playing in the background. It’s hard to make small talk with someone who can’t hear you speak, and it’s harder to speak to someone you know can’t hear you anyway. Besides, how can I tell him how I’m doing when I’m young and healthy? Would it make him jealous?

After the doctor pops in on his rounds and tells us that it was a very close call we decide to leave, because my grandpa is nodding off. My dad coaxes some cranberry juice into his mouth and urges him to drink it, like a parent with a child. I touch his foot, lying so helplessly on the bed, and I tell him to take care. Then we depart.

Once we get into the car all I can think about is how if my grandfather dies tonight the last thing I will have told him would be to “take care.” And then my shoulders drop, my face disappears into my hands, and I cry like the baby in the picture is about to.