Papa

This is an essay that I wrote about my Papa. The assignment was to write about a moment in your life that matured you. This is the result.

            The day was St. Patrick’s Day, March 2011. The streets of San Francisco were filled with people wearing green, going out to pubs, and laughing. Inside the hospital room, however, it was a different story. My grandfather, Paul Dennis Clary III, was dying of heart failure after battling it for over 20 years.

            It was a Thursday morning. I was off at school, blissfully unaware of what was happening an hour away. I received a note in my first period class, excusing me from school. Usually, I would be excited about this. It was a free pass to get out of class! But the pass read, “Family Emergency” under the reason of absence. I knew something must have been wrong. I thought about what it might be, but pushed it out of my mind.

            Alas, my mother confirmed what I had already suspected: Papa was dying.

“Mom,” I said worriedly, “what’s going on?”

“Papa is in the hospital. The whole family is there. We’re going up there now,” my mother responded.

We had had many false alarms before (he survived about 5 heart attacks before this, his first being in ’78), so I assumed that was all it was, a false alarm. ‘He’ll be okay,’ I told myself. ‘Everything will be fine.’

Within an hour, we were at the hospital. I am sure now that my mother broke a couple laws to get us there so quickly, but that was the last thing on my mind at that point. I was practically sick with worry. When we arrived at the hospital, everything seemed wrong. There were far too many cheery decorations in the hallways and on doors. Everything was green and sparkly; the opposite of how we felt.

 We found our way to the hospital room, and the waiting room where most of my family was located. We didn’t say much to each other, but we were all leaning on one another’s shoulders. Some were crying, some were hugging, a few were pacing, and others sat in the corner, staring off into space. None of us really knew what to do or what to say.

A little while later, I did something for the first time that I’m sure I will have to do again. I called the people most important to me to tell them the news. I first called my best friends Beth and Sam. I tried to get the words out, but after several attempts at clear communication I just broke down. They were incredibly supportive and patient with me. Both of them just sat there and let me cry to them and murmured encouraging words to me through the spotty connection. After that, I wasn’t sure whom to call. I decided on my two best childhood friends, the two people who had gotten me through the most in my young life, Jessie and Ana. I don’t remember exactly what Ana said, but I will never forget my conversation with Jessie.

“Jess, uh… Um… Well…” I tried to spit out.

“What’s going on Liana?” Jessie said worriedly.

“I… Um… My Papa’s dying.”

Now I was with Jessie when she lost her grandpa. It had been several years before this. We were at her house alone, when the phone rang. It was her aunt, telling her that her grandpa had just died. She completely broke down, right then and there. I had no idea what to do. We were only about ten years old. So I just sat with her for a while, and held her while she cried.

“Liana… You were there for me when this happened to me. You told me it would all get better, and that you would stick by my side no matter what. So that is what I will say to you. I can tell you now, from experience, that it DOES in fact get better. Your whole entire gigantic family will be with you every step of the way, and so will I. You are so special to me and I know this will be hard. I know how much he meant to you. You have so many people who are here to support you. I love you so much.”

And with that, I snapped.

For the next few hours, I was virtually a zombie without any desire to eat raw human flesh. I roamed the halls of the hospital, walking aimlessly around. My parents were too distracted to even realize that I had left the waiting room. It was so packed with my, in fact, “gigantic family,” that no one really knew who was there and what was going on.

It was strange. It was like I was in some parallel universe where nothing was as it should be. I saw my aunts, uncles, and older cousins who I had looked up to for my entire life just standing there, broken. Broken, just like me. My cousin Xavier, who is the epitome of manliness, was standing in the hallway, leaning on the railing, crying shamelessly into the phone. My brother Patrick, from whom I never saw so much as a tremble of the lip, was leaning into my mom and staring off into nothing. My whole family that had always seemed to me so strong and unbreakable was cracked.

At this point, time was irrelevant to me. I might’ve been there an hour, or a few days. I couldn’t make sense of anything anymore. My whole world was crashing. After some indefinite amount of time, a priest came out of my Papa’s hospital room, and told us it was time. We knew what to do.

We all filed one by one, holding each other’s hands, into the tiny room. We stayed connected and formed a circle around Papa’s bed. The priest began reciting prayers while my family and I stood there, watching Papa, squeezing each other’s hands, and had tears fill our eyes. The priest said one last prayer before it happened. It was an Irish prayer, an homage to the heritage my papa wore so proudly. It was the same prayer that had hung by our front door for as long as I can remember. I found myself mouthing along to the words:

May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back,

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

May the rains fall soft upon your fields,

And, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.

-       Origin Unknown

After the priest finished, Papa opened his eyes. We knew he was still here with us, not yet gone. He seemed to be trying so hard to look around at us. His eyes couldn’t quite make it around the room, so he settled to stare at what was right in front of them. It seemed to be me. The last eye contact he would ever make was with me.

I matured immensely during this experience. I learned how to contact people who are most important to me, vital to my survival, and would want to know what’s going on. I learned that it’s okay to cry when something of this magnitude happens, no matter what. More than any of that, though, I learned to keep my family and friends close to me. The best families and the best friends are the perfect medicine for when anything happens. Due to this experience, I have matured in a way that not everyone can say. I have loved and lost. I have watched a man die. In my opinion, there is no more maturing and realistic experience that anyone can live through.