Heirlooms

I was with my grandfather--my father's father--the moment he took his last breath. When he died, he was laying in a hospital bed, extremely confused, restraints on both arms, calling out for his brother Carmen. He was squirming around in bed so much that he was rubbing his back and butt raw. As the night passed, and the morphine kicked in, he became more and more subdued. The frequent yells ceased, the movement in his bed stopped, and I began counting his breaths. They too became less frequent as the fluid in his body slowly filled his lungs. I stayed awake with him all night. It was early morning when he made a final push of air. I was sure I saw his soul leave his body. His color changed from his normal olive complexion to yellow to white.

I was with my father, too, the moment he took his last breath. It wasn't much different, the final moments, that is. My father was on a ventilator the last weeks of his life, so yelling out and squirming were not part of his last actions. In between stints on the ventilator--there were two, one week apart--he wasn't the same. He was subjected to crying fits, talked about wanting to see "Jersey Boys," and his enjoyment of the movie "Brokeback Mountain." This was a guy who joined the Marines at 16, who carried a gun as long as I can remember, who loved his country, his family, and anything Republican. He wasn't the crying kind. I had only seen him cry two times before. Once when my uncle, his brother, died. And once when he was told he was going to be a grandfather for the first time. I wasn't alone this time, when my father died. My brothers and their wives were there, my wife was there, and my mother was there. When they removed the ventilator from his body, he began making this horrible sound. It was a flutter that reminded me of the sound a balloon makes when you let the air out. It was loud. Too loud. Loud enough for the staff on the ICU to hear it and feel embarrassed.

My father looked like his father laying there in bed, dying.

As I age, I think I am beginning to see my father in me. His appearance, his mannerisms, not his politics. A physical heirloom. Something that cannot get lost, stolen, battered, or forgotten. Something I will hand down to my son. A treasure.