Quick, shallow gasps. That’s all I could hear was a litany of rapid, shallow breaths. It was almost rhythmic, conducting an imaginary beat for the conversation my brother and I were having with our cousins. Seven years in the ER told me that this was the end.
I had one day off sandwiched between a string of three shifts in a row and a string of four shifts in a row. And that one day off consisted of my traveling more than three hours to Baytown for a memorial service for Msgr. Rivas, the priest that was effectively the main father figure my mother had after her own father had passed when she was nine years old.
The initial plan was to have an early breakfast with my family the morning after the service before I made my trek back to Austin for my upcoming night shifts. But, as always, my plans derailed quickly at the end of breakfast when my mother’s phone rang.
The AC kicked on. Suddenly, the rhythmic breathing was obscured by the whirring of the air conditioning. If I listened closely enough, I could still make out the gasping, but not as clearly.
My brother and I made our way to our aunt and uncle’s place from the restaurant. Our parents had already headed that way after reassuring them that as grown adults, we were capable of paying the check. We pulled into the driveway past the chain-link gate. The familiar home was obscured by a brand new Mossy Oak travel trailer that they were living in since their main residence was in a state of disrepair and disarray due to my aunt’s frequent hospitalizations for her myriad health issues.
We walked into the trailer where my parents and cousins were huddled around the bed. My uncle tearfully holding my aunt while my mother checked her blood pressure. 80/60. A far cry from the neighborhood of 180’s-200’s that her systolic blood pressure normally lived in.
My uncle rose from the bed tearfully and began sobbing in the living area of the trailer. I wrapped my arm around his shoulders in the only show of support I could think of in the moment. Admittedly, I’m not an emotions guy. The mood in the trailer was somber but eventually lightened. I found some amusement in the coincidental color-coding we’d unknowingly adhered to. My mom, my cousin, his wife, and I (the nurses) were all in shades of blue. My dad, another cousin, and my brother (the former priest and the two teachers) were in grays and blacks.
My parents stepped out to get something, and we cousins gathered in the living area to chat and catch up, our conversation rolling along as a song with the metronome of my aunt’s breathing in the background. My uncle laid in the bed with my aunt, savoring what was likely the last moments they would have together.
As the whirring of the AC halted, the noise was replaced by the light ticking of drizzle on the roof of the trailer. I started noticing brief periods of what sounded like apnea punctuating the breaths. My uncle asked my cousin to take out her IV so he could change her a little more easily after an episode of incontinence. He did, and we returned to the conversation.
Suddenly, we were jarred from our conversation by a single loud exclamation from my aunt. Nothing intelligible, but to be fair, nothing she had uttered since we arrived was intelligible.
Not long after, my uncle came out of the room and said she stopped breathing. My cousin listed to her heart sounds and attempted to take a blood pressure. It was official. Time of death: 1125. And just like that it was over. The suffering was over.
After the dust settled with the EMS, the police department, the JP, and the funeral home, my brother, his wife and I accompanied our uncle back to the main home where he placed the statue of the Virgin Mary back on their altar. It was then that I really took notice of the walls in their house. Every wall in the living room was covered with photos of them, their vacations, their children and their families, us. And their home was largely the same as when we were children.
The chimes hanging in one of the doorways that we used to have to jump up and reach to hit. The light-up fiber optic flower thing we used to play with. The dining set we used to sit at. The shelves and shelves of Reader’s Digest condensed book volumes that I used to admire as a child that loved reading. The pencil cup and clock party favors from my best friend’s and my high school graduation party. The yard where they tried to teach me how to ride a bike. For the first time in years, I looked past the clutter and the mess and appreciated the memories held within those walls.
In that moment, it reminded me of a song from In the Heights called Everything I Know. In it, one of the characters sings about her recently deceased grandmother after realizing that she was the historian of their block, the keeper of memories of all of their lives. As I drove back to Austin to go to work, I listened to that song again. And at the end of the song, that was the first time that day that I cried.
She saved everything we gave her
Every little scrap of paperAll our lives are in these boxes
While the woman who held us is gone
But we go on, we grow, so
Hold tight, Abuela, if you’re up there
I’ll make you proud of everything I know
Thank you, for everything I know– Everything I Know from In the Heights
Rest in peace, Tita Tess. Thank you, for everything I know.
Lift your spirit, set it free 