Saturday, July 14, 2012

Insomnia

Dear Grandpa,

I should be asleep by now, dreaming of things I can never remember, but I just can't get to sleeping. I got into a stupid argument right before I went up to bed and thought about writing to you, but selfishly did other mindless things (that didn't turn out to be so mindless after all).

I think the real reason I can't go to sleep is because I was meant to write you a post tonight. I really believe it's some sort of divine intervention, where I was supposed to be feeling a little down so I can face some really big thoughts I have been avoiding. As much as I put up an "I'm so over it" guard, I don't think I ever REALLY talked about how I felt when you passed. Of all days and times, it's bothering me right now and I cannot for the life of me get to sleep before getting it off my chest. So, thank you divine intervention, this damn weight is getting off of my chest now:

I an guilty for not running to Grandma's first call. Sometimes she just yells my name all over the house to ask me something that I know is not important, so I ignore her or give her attitude. I feel especially guilty for getting severely annoyed at her when she called seven more times to come to her without telling me what was wrong. I was stupid and not caring, which is why I feel guilty for not being there in time. By the time I understood the shrill of her calls and ran into your room, you were limp in her arms and she had no physical or mental strength to hold you or even respond rationally. It was at that moment that I realized that I was the adult in this situation and I had to hold myself (and Grandma) together.

I feel that as an aid to my own anxiety and to all of the readers who have already gone through, or are experiencing the life of Alzheimer's now, it is important to let everything out. I knew you weren't with us, Grandpa, the second I picked you up and laid you on your bed. Your skin was a white I still can't explain and through my shaking hands, there was no pulse. In my heart of hearts, I knew you were dead, but for Grandma's sake and my mom's sake (who I knew would be devastated if she wasn't there for you) I called 911 and followed through resuscitating. With only the strength of God, I held myself together and sent Grandma in the ambulance, (even though I wanted to be there too) called everyone I needed, signed my brothers out of school, and drove to the hospital. The only person that I let myself breakdown in front of was my neighbor just after the ambulance and cops left. She never brought it up afterward, but we've had an unspoken understanding ever since.

I still don't think my parents know the full story and I'm pretty sure Grandma blocked it out, but I remember everything. It is haunting. I have been in several other situations where I had to be the adult and work out an emergency on my own, but none ever prepared me for the guilt and memory that would follow me after the day you died.

There are few times that I cry about it. The only way I can describe the situation is in relation to a cut (so typical, I know, but it makes so much sense). I had a gash the day you died and it never had the chance to be a gash ... you know, bleed profusely, clot, scab over, and maybe scar. My gash simply scabbed over and scarred. There was no time to bleed or clot: there wasn't anyone to really talk to. I told you how much I hate crying to people, so I kept to myself. I didn't want to relive the moment, so I never told the whole truth to anyone. I hurt. I wish someone else understands how I feel now without having to say it out loud.

I wish I was in the room sooner to save you and I wish I didn't feel the weight of death. I wish I wasn't scared of touching your hand once I knew you were gone. I hope this let's me sleep and maybe soon, I won't live with the guilt or I won't be so haunted by the memory. Most of all, I wish I could meet you in my dreams tonight and see you Alzheimer's free.

You already took your chance to let go. Now I need to too.

Love always,
Your Granddaughter

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