Time Too Fast

The sun shined brightly and flowers bloomed on an April day. The last place I want to be is outside, seeing that there is pollen floating everywhere I was. The ironic thing is that I’m in spring track, and I have horrible allergies. I drag along every single day either with a stuffy nose or puffy, bloodshot eyes. Another thing is that none of the events adjusted to my personal abilities. My weak, flabby arms did not qualify for shot put, and I’m obviously too slow for sprinting. Although I never enjoy a day in track, the real truth is that I plan to stay until track photos for the yearbook, and then quit. (I’m sure I’m not that type of person anymore) The day of pictures finally came, and when I happily went to change into my uniform, my phone unexpectedly rings.

“Come to the car, we’re in the back,” It was my sister, Stephanie. Her voice sounds tense.

“What are you talking about? I have track photos today! I don’t want to leave!” The day my parents decide to take me home is when I wanted to be there most.

“Just come now! Stop being stupid!” And she hangs up the phone. I stubbornly walk out of the locker room to the car. My dad and Stephanie look worried. I’m too scared and frustrated to ask what’s happening, so the car ride is silent.

We arrive home, and I whine to my mom why I didn’t want to leave school. She tells me to change my clothes and pack spaghetti for myself in the car. I have no idea what is going on. So I just obey her and wait in the car. While I ate my food, Stephanie joins me and we joke about our school day. My mom gets in, then my dad. His cell phone rings.

“Hello? Ali? (My aunt’s name in Hakka) How is she doing?” There is a bomb that grew in my grandmother’s stomach probably for two years already but we just found it about a month ago. She’s been in the hospital to be taken care until… “…What?” his voice is cracking. “Oh no… ok bye.” My father tries to keep a firm voice. “Their going to take Apho off of life support at six o’clock.” Apho is what we call my grandma in Hakka. My dad stares out the front window. All of a sudden, he starts to cry very loudly. I’ve never seen my father like this. He looked weak and surrendered. We are still in our driveway, so my mother takes the wheel instead. My sister is sobbing quietly in the back seat while I stare at my food. The sound of sadness and the news makes me feel horrible inside. I put the lid on my spaghetti container.

We drive an hour and a half to this hospital in New York, maybe near Queens. It is a new location for us because my grandma had to get another surgery for something. The first time we went to the New York hospital, my cousins and uncles from Canada were playing poker in the waiting room, and all the daughter-in laws were gossiping about people in the family. My oldest sister Kimmy sat with my grandma while everyone else wandered around the hospital. But before that, we used to go to the Jersey Shore Hospital. It is also an hour away, but close to my aunt’s house. My aunt is the only daughter of the five children, and she took care of my grandma when my grandma went to her house.

The hazy traffic delays us even more, and then it starts to rain. My dad calms down and takes the wheel while my mother sleeps. Stephanie and I look out the New York streets with plenty of interest. The hard wind makes umbrellas flip inside out for the New Yorkers. We laugh. My father did not talk at all. The time is ticking; 3 hours: 01 minute left. We finally arrive to the curve lot of the hospital, and a chauffer, surprisingly present at a medical center, parks our car.

We wait by elevator and meet our cousins. Although they are from my mother’s side of the family, most of them generously came to visit my grandma. The hallways echo our footsteps when we got my grandmother’s floor. My cousins lead us to the waiting room, and the automatic doors open. Almost my whole family is there. Kimmy and Jackie, my other sister calls to say that they were on their way. The only thing I hear is the weather woman talking about the dismal weather. There is no poker playing, gossiping, or fooling around. It was just sickening silence. But outside of the room, I hear my aunt talking.

“They’re pulling the plug today because the cancer has grown too big for her stomach. It’s in her pancreas and has been in there for about three months already, but we found it about a month ago. Yeah…” she sniffles. “Okay, I will. Bye.” She’s on the phone with my grandma’s brother in China. Out of all the four younger siblings, none ever called to check on her.

“Where’s Apho?” my dad asks. My aunt brings us out of the waiting room and into another section that said, ‘INTENSIVE CARE UNIT’. Every room is occupied with sick people. My hands feel sticky and sweaty.

“You have to put on scrubs and these things.” She hands us each a scrub, face mask, and gloves. We enter the room, and the blue curtain is pulled open. I hear the heart machine beeping at a comfortable pace. My body feels numb and I start to cry. Her face is pale yellow, and there was a small, clear tube placed into her mouth. I went over to touch her hand. It was cold. Her breaths were loud but short. I gaze at her big, ballooned stomach. The bomb is killing her and making her lose. She didn’t smell like the candy she always gave us that tasted like her leather purse. She smelled like gloves and used hospital sheets.

Kimmy arrives. My dad is kneeling on the end of my grandmother’s bed. My dad was never a sensitive man. There is too much happening. Jackie arrives, cursing under her breath while holding my grandmother’s hand. Time left; 1 hr: 29 min.

I go back to the waiting room and see that everyone is eating. I am hungry but how could I eat with my grandma living in the other room struggling through her last hours? My face burned when I wiped my face. Everything they said made me feel even worse.

“It’s okay, you did enough for her, you made her proud.” How could I have made her proud if I yelled at her every single time I was angry? The storm of guilt flushes me down; I feel like going down with my grandma right then. My feelings are so askew. I have so much to tell her but our time is too limited. I feel sick standing next to her. She is my Apho. Why is this happening to her?

Time left: N/A

Throughout the long hours, I walk back and fourth from the waiting room to my grandmother’s room. I would hold my grandmother’s hand and cry. I keep on asking myself, why does she have to leave me? Am I just crying for myself or for the sake of her life? I felt guilt and agony from thinking this way. Maybe I am selfish. Her hand was cold and she looked gray.

It is almost time. The doctors talk to my aunt and uncles outside of the room. I watch them. My face stung from the marks from the water. The doctor and two nurses struggle to get to my grandmother, seeing that there were almost thirty people surrounding her. The medics take all the machinery and wires off of her and leave. My grandmother is fighting against the bomb alone now.

76, 56, 34, 46, 61…The heart machine numbers jump up and down. The room is suddenly hot. I only want my family to be in the room with my grandmother. No cousins, no aunts, no uncles. She means the most to us, and she probably wants my parents, sisters, and I there the most.

“She’s going to a better place, it’s okay, she’ll be in peace now,” my sister whispers to me while I bury my face into her sleeve. What a stupid excuse. Why would she be in a better place if we are not there with her? And how would we even know she’s off in a better place? How would we know if she is safe with our grandpa? Who will take care of her if we are not there? Who will she love? What I believe is that if you don’t know the truth, don’t say anything at all. Her time is up. Apho is going to die. Why not just say that? Why not?

23, 34, 45, 13, 52… All we could do was watch and try to comfort my grandma. I whisper softly into her ear to thank her for everything, apologize for everything, and cry because I was hurt. The numbers bounce randomly from high to low. It‘s the first time I ever saw my grandma losing. She’s ready to surrender. The bomb is going to win.

12, 7, 2, 5, 6, 3, 1… The numbers went lower in seconds. Her breaths shorten. I feel my warm head spin around. My hands are cold. Everyone is screaming. I’m about to vomit. Running towards the trashcan, I gag. The nurse closes the door quietly to suppress the disturbance to the other patients. It is the end. I’m sorry for everything.