i was okay

I’m walking down the hall. Every room looks the same. All beige, all filled with the same heavy sadness. I can feel the weight of each room getting heavier on my shoulders as I walk closer to yours. One step at a time. I get closer and closer to something I dread seeing.

I get to your room, where I’m met with sympathetic eyes. I see grandma sitting by your side. She comes out of the room to greet me with a hug. She tells me I have to put on a mask, a pair of blue gloves and some sort of yellow gown. I walk inside your room. You look different. I don’t like it.

I sit beside you and look at you. You’re a sight I’ve never seen before. My eyes are heavy and my throat is sore. I can feel the lump in my throat getting bigger as if saying anything will cause it to burst. My mask is wet from crying and my glasses have little drawings on them from the tears.

I hold your hand. It’s cold so we put a blanket on you. Your belly is big like a mountain. It wasn’t big like that before. You’re hooked up to a bunch of tubes and wires. It looks uncomfortable. I know you hate this.

We talk for a while, though I’m the only one talking. I tell you what a great inspiration you’ve been and how I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I reminisce over all our memories together. Grandma sits and talks with us. We think you can hear us. We choose to believe you can hear us.

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You’re awake. But you’re not you. Something’s different in your eyes. I’ve always known you as a strong resilient man but right now you look weak. You look tired. I keep telling myself you’re going to get through this. That you’re strong enough to get through this, but something in me knows. Something is different this time.

Me and grandma sit with you for a while. We’re in the same room as we were yesterday. I’m in the chair beside your bed. The machines around you are beeping. Grandma is telling you about how you really scared me yesterday when you weren’t waking up. You just squeeze my hand.

Since you can’t talk to us because of the tube in your throat we decide to figure out another way we can communicate. I tell grandma to grab your hand while I pull out my phone. Grandma starts going through the alphabet – a, b, c, d – so on and so on. When she gets to "I" you squeeze her hand. I write it down. We continue this method of communication until you tell us “I was okay”.

That’s all you say, I was okay. 

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I look at my phone, dad’s calling me. He sounds excited. He tells me you’re talking and feeling much better. I knew this would happen. I’ve been waiting for you to start feeling better.
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I get off the train and run to mom’s car. We’re driving to the hospital. I’m so excited to see you. I’m talking to mom about how I can’t wait to see you. She looks at me and my stomach drops. I can already tell what she’s about to say.

Keely, he’s not doing well anymore.
What do you mean?
Today is his last day.

My grandfather was my best friend. The day he died was the single hardest day of my life.
I remember being in that room so vividly. The white sheet laying over his body. The color leaving his skin. He felt colder.

The room was filled with tears. It was filled with laughter from memories of the past. It was filled with family stories and inside jokes.

Before he died, he held my hand and kissed it. I broke down crying. I know he loved me. I know I meant so much to him. I miss him.

I don’t think you ever truly appreciate someone until they’re completely gone.
Everything he taught me, everything he did for me will not be forgotten.

I love you grandpa Harv.
I promise I’ll be okay.