My grandfather almost died this week. Well, his odds were supposedly fifty-fifty, which is damn near close enough to “almost” if you ask me. He formed a hernia as a young man, and it finally caught up to him at the age of eighty-six. On Wednesday, my grandfather began vomiting at his nursing home and was eventually sent to the UC San Francisco hospital. When we heard the news, my father and I drove up that night after dinner.
My father’s sister had already been waiting at the hospital for an hour when we got there, and she told us that there was talk of surgery. If the hernia had caused intestinal tissue to die, then my grandfather would definitely need an operation. The problem with sedating a man that old is, at my grandfather’s age, if you’re put under anesthetic, there’s an estimated fifty percent chance that you won’t wake up. So the big question of the night was whether an operation was necessary. While the doctors deliberated, we were kept waiting for an excruciating eight hours before we heard the decision.
While we waited, the three of us visited my grandfather in shifts. The bureaucratic idiots at the hospital had an obnoxious rule that no more than one person was allowed to visit a patient at any given time. I can see in theory how that policy might make sense, but it wasn’t as if San Francisco had just been struck by a WMD and the emergency room was packed with bleeding patients. There was more than enough room to accommodate three concerned family members of a man who very well could have been dead within the next twenty-four hours.
Anyway, I did have a chance to visit my grandfather, but I had to be alone and without a translator. I don’t speak a word of Mandarin, and my grandfather can’t do much better in English. So during my visit, we stared at each other as I stood above his bed and he looked up drearily beneath the scores of tubes that ran across his body. It breaks my heart that I’ll never be able to tell him all the things that I wish he knew.
At some point, I sat down and plotted out a speech to tell him. You know, it would have been one of those poignant monologues that movie characters deliver in quiet hospital rooms to unconscious loved ones. But when I opened my mouth to speak, the words wouldn’t come out. I’m more of a writer than a speaker, you know. In the end, I decided not to confuse the poor man with my incomprehensible babbling. After a few more minutes of sitting by his bed, I stood to leave and told my grandfather that I love him. I’ve never told him that before. Really, the only relative I’ve ever said that to is my mother; and even then, that only happens on very special occasions. But as I looked down at my grandfather in one of his most vulnerable states, some instinctual impulse swelled my heart, and I grew fully aware of the love that I have for this man, whom I’ve never spoken to for longer than two minutes.
The rest of my time at the hospital was spent sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chairs in the emergency room waiting area. I attempted to read, sleep, and watch television multiple times throughout the night, all with minimal success. By 4am, the doctors decided to hold off on operating for the night. We thanked them for their speedy decision and drove home.
My grandfather underwent surgery the next day. Nobody in the family had any prior warning because the doctors determined that an immediate operation was needed. Gladly, he was conscious again within the same day, and I spent a few hours on Friday visiting my grandfather at intensive care. The old man had a fifty percent chance of dying, and he pulled through. I’m glad my grandfather is still around, even if it’s only for a little while longer.
It may be asking too much to expect to never lose a relative or a friend. Most of us would prefer to take the presence of loved ones for granted and to deal with loss only as soon as it comes. But it is only in the prospect of loss that you may fully realize how much you love somebody. Celebrate every moment spent together, and try to imagine on occasion what your life would be like without that particular somebody. Love them while they’re still here as much as you’ll love them when they’re gone, and maybe it might not hurt so much if you really do lose them. That is, at least, how I would choose to live my life. So here’s to those whom we wish were still a part of our lives. And here’s to those loved ones whom we haven’t yet lost.