The Russian Part два (Two)
This was the hardest thing I had ever done in my life. My grandfather, the best man I had ever known and would ever know, was dying, and I had gone home to help him do it.
I had arrived at my parents’ house and followed the familiar snow-trodden path across the yard. The interior lights cast an orange glow onto the mounds of white. The Christmas tree stood tall in the window; its antique globe lights strung like colorful, frosted confections.
Inside, the den had been turned into a makeshift hospital room. The desk was covered with medical supplies. A portable toilet had been set up. A wheelchair was tucked into the corner. In the center of the room, my grandfather dozed on a hospital bed.
We had a special relationship, my grandfather and I. He had been my touchstone, my constant, the man who had taught me the most important things in life. He had lived with us since I was seven years old, and he had patiently loved me as I struggled through trauma, then reacted to that trauma, and then slowly found my way in the world. He had held on until he finally saw me happy, settled, and surrounded by love. Not even three months after my wedding, he would die.
“Are you scared?” I asked him after he awoke.
“I’m not scared of dying. I’m ready to go. My time here is done. It’s your time, now.” He paused, almost as if he was ashamed to say what came next. “I just don’t want to suffer.”
“I won’t let you suffer, Afi.” Afi. The Icelandic word for grandfather. It had become his name to nearly everyone who knew him. It was fitting, really, for he became family to all he met, wrapping them in his warmth while expecting nothing from them but a hug in return. He accepted people as they were, wherever they were in life.
“I don’t want to feel like I’m drowning,” he said. “I heard that can happen with the congestive heart failure.”
It wasn’t congestive heart failure that was killing him, it was acute leukemia, which he had chosen not to treat. But at nearly 85 years old, he had concomitant issues that could pose challenges as the end grew near.
“I promise,” I told him. “I won’t let you suffer. I won’t let that happen.” I didn’t make promises lightly, and never had I made a promise more important than that one.
So, I took care of him. I helped him to the toilet, kept track of his medications, made his meals, kept him company. I barely left his side, especially after trying to sleep upstairs the first night and waking up to the sound of him calling out for help. My parents had assured me that they would hear him from their bedroom on the first floor, and if not, then certainly the baby monitor they had set up would alert them to his needs. But as I rushed past their room all I heard was my father’s snoring and the even breathing of my mother’s slumber.
“I didn’t think I was going to make it,” he had said with a touch of embarrassment when I found him standing unsteadily, attempting to shuffle the few feet to the toilet.
“I’m here,” I said, and gave him my hand.
After I had him safely back in bed, I went upstairs and retrieved my pillow, comforter, phone, and charger. I set up camp on the couch, waking each time he needed help shifting positions or a sip of water or pain medication. I remained there as the days passed and Christmas inched ever closer.
The other members of the household had a more hands-off approach to his care, which didn’t agree with me. They seemed to go about their lives as if nothing was happening. I knew everyone processed death differently, but I couldn’t understand why my mother was spending more time baking cookies and doing household chores than she was being present with her dying father. Time with Afi was growing short. We had one chance to get it right and I felt like I was the only one who felt the magnitude of the moment.
My sense of responsibility heightened after observing that when I relinquished his care, he was neglected. When I took a shower, no one heard him calling to use the bathroom. When I took a nap, no one noticed that he was lying in soaking wet sheets. No one else altered his position to prevent bedsores. Often, they left him alone in the room while they did other things. Soon, I believed fervently that it was all up to me. I refused to leave his side.
Christmas Eve arrived after several days of scant sleep and being cooped up in the den. My mother invited me to go for a walk.
“You need to get out of the house,” she said, eyeing my greasy hair, dirty pajamas, and bloodshot eyes.
“I don’t want to leave him,” I replied. “He’s due for morphine in forty-five minutes.”
“You need a break,” she pressed.
“I’m fine. I’m going to stay here.”
“I can give him his morphine,” my dad chimed in from behind the refrigerator door.
I hesitated. “You won’t forget? He needs it right on time.”
“Sonja, I’m perfectly capable of managing this,” he replied with a hint of exasperation as he firmly shut the door. Perhaps he saw the manic glint in my eye, my need to control the situation, my desperation to make sure everything was perfect.
“But you can’t go off and leave him alone in the room,” I explained. “You have to stay with him. He could fall if he tries to get up. And you have to make sure his sheets are dry.” I recited a list of orders.
Dad picked up the newspaper from the kitchen table. “Look. I’ll sit right here and do the crossword puzzle until you get back.” He went into the den and sat on the couch while folding the paper in half. He reached for the pen lying on the coffee table.
“You can’t forget the morphine. Forty-five minutes.”
He looked at his watch. “Yes. I’ve got it,” he assured me.
Forcing my reservations aside, I rushed upstairs to throw on clothes then met my mother by the door. As I pulled on my winter gear, I saw that Afi was asleep, and my dad was still on the couch.
“Thirty minutes from now,” I reminded my dad as I headed out the door.
“I’ve got it,” he repeated with a hint of annoyance, not looking up from the newspaper.
My mother was the one who needed the walk. She went stir crazy if she didn’t get enough exercise, but I have to admit, the fresh air felt nice as did the change of scenery. As she led me farther from the house, I mentally kept track of the time. We were gone for nearly an hour when I suggested we return. I was growing more antsy with each passing minute.
Back in the house, I quickly shed my outerwear with relief and peaked into the den. My father was still on the couch, working on his puzzle while flipping channels on the television. I turned my attention to Afi, and immediately knew something was wrong. He was writhing in discomfort, his legs shifting restlessly, his forehead creased.
“Did he have his morphine?” I asked.
“Oh!” my dad jumped up. “No! I forgot!”
I nearly screamed in frustration. This. This was why I hadn’t slept for three days. This was why I didn’t go on walks, or shower, or do anything else. Because at that moment, Afi was suffering. At that moment, I had failed him.
“Sorry,” Dad said, casually.
I ground my teeth together as I drew up the proper dose of morphine and released the liquid into Afi’s mouth under his tongue. I held his hand and told him I was sorry, that I wouldn’t be late again.
“It’s okay, Pweepare,” the silly nickname he’d given me a mere whisper on his lips. He stroked my palm as I kept vigil the rest of the afternoon. I was worried. What if I failed him again?
Vika (the Russian who never left) and her husband arrived from Vermont that afternoon. She dumped her things by the door and went straight to Afi. He was delighted to see her, his eyes lighting up. They visited until he tired and needed a rest.
That night, the whole family came for Christmas Eve dinner, and Vika sat with him while I fixed a plate of food. After we ate, everyone gathered in the den to watch a movie. My grandfather perked up, relishing having everyone together, especially with my sister’s young children providing entertainment. Afi’s favorite thing was being surrounded by family.
Later, after my sister had gone back to her house and Vika’s husband had gone to stay with his family, Vika and I shared a bottle of wine or two while speaking quietly as Afi slept. I recapped the events of the past few days, expressing my frustration with my family and my grief over our coming loss. Exhaustion weighed me down and my tears would not stop flowing. Vika cried with me, sharing how important Afi had become to her over the past ten years, how welcomed he had made her feel. We traded stories, reminisced about what a great man he was, exalted his legacy and lamented the void that his death was going to leave behind.
I couldn’t remember Vika and I ever spending time like this, just the two of us, sharing feelings, intimacies, confidences…revealing our vulnerabilities and idiosyncrasies.
As the hour grew late, I could no longer stifle my yawns. Vika offered to sleep on the couch. I declined.
“I’m a night person,” she said. “I’ll take care of him.”
“It’s ok. I’m fine.” I wasn’t ready to hand over his care again.
She looked at me with concern but relented. “Come get me if you need help,” she said pointedly, waiting for me to meet her eyes.
“Ok,” I agreed, and sent her off to bed.
A few hours later, I woke her.
“His sheets are wet,” I said. “I can’t turn him by myself. It hurts him too much.”
I had yet to go to sleep. It had seemed pointless to try before the next dose of morphine was due, and then I had discovered the soaked sheets.
Vika put on her glasses and wrapped herself in a robe, then followed me downstairs to the den. We worked together, gently maneuvering Afi’s body while we pulled the soiled sheets from under him, then sponged him clean and pulled a fresh gown over his head. Finally, we stretched clean sheets around him until the bed was fully made once more. I covered him in warm blankets, then stroked his bald head.
“Thank you,” he whispered to us, then directed his gaze to Vika. “I’m so glad you’re here, Vika. You know you’re my granddaughter, too,” he told her lovingly.
Her face streamed with tears as she hugged him, thanking him and telling him she loved him.
I collapsed wearily on the couch while she sat on the bed with him until he fell back to sleep.
“You go,” she insisted to me. “You need to rest. I’ll stay with him.”
I surprised myself by saying, “Ok,” with only minimal hesitation. I gave her detailed instructions and insisted she come get me if she needed help. As I trudged up the stairs to the bed I hadn’t slept in for days, I somehow knew that she wouldn’t let me down. More importantly, I knew that she wouldn’t let him down.
It was a subdued Christmas Day but having us all together was just how Afi would have wanted it. Vika had quickly proven herself conscientious, caring, and capable, and she was the only other person I would allow to care for Afi. We made a good team changing sheets, adjusting his position, monitoring his pain. As Afi slipped farther away from us, we doubled down on keeping him comfortable. She never shied away from cleaning a bedpan, sponging him down, or applying shaving cream to the angry sores hiding in bodily crevices. She moistened his dry lips, dripped water into his mouth, and held his hand in comfort. She made sure that if I wasn’t there, she was. We alternated nights on the couch, and when I slept upstairs, I never doubted that his needs were being seen to.
The day after Christmas, my husband was finally able to join me. I told him everything that had happened, how Vika had saved me, how I was still standing because of her. I could never repay her, never thank her enough. She had helped me to keep my promise to Afi. I would be forever grateful.
My husband’s arrival was like the final puzzle piece had been put in place. Afi began to let go. Death is not a quiet experience, and toward the end, I wondered again if I had failed him. We circled around him, and I whispered into his ear how much I loved him. I told him it was ok to let go, even though I didn’t think anything would ever be ok again. And then, a single, last word passed across his lips.
“Pweepare.”
My nickname. He was telling me so many things with that one word. Goodbye. I love you. I’m proud of you. I hoped he was also saying that I had kept my promise, that I hadn’t let him down.
Soon after, he was gone. As I looked through dampened eyes at my grieving family, my eyes stopped on Vika as she sobbed over Afi’s body. I thought about what we had been through over the past few days, the experience we had shared, the bond we had formed. It was like we had gone to battle and were coming out the other side of it, bloodstained and weary. It was in this moment where everything shifted, where she became more than the student my parents had taken in, more than the person I saw at family gatherings like a distant relative. We had a connection as close as blood. She was now my sister in every way except by birth. It was the last gift that Afi gave to me, and the most precious one yet.
Since then, Vika has proven time and again that she was the sibling my original sister and I never knew we needed: our “other” sister. She is the classic middle child. The three of us bicker and complain and hurt each other’s feelings. We aren’t polite. We don’t sugar coat. We three are messy and competitive and sometimes judgmental, but in the end, we are loyal and strong and steadfast.
It’s been almost twenty years since Afi died; almost thirty years since that first Thanksgiving Vika appeared in our kitchen and peeled potatoes. We’ve had marriages, divorces, babies, mid-life crises, deaths… the biggest moments of life have been shared with each other. We spend holidays together, and birthdays, and as many other days as we can squeeze into our busy lives. Family gatherings are not complete unless we are all there. There could be no better way to honor my grandfather’s legacy. Family and love were the ideals he lived by. The more time that has passed, the more it seems like it was always meant to be. We are more balanced, somehow, with the three of us.
And though we didn’t need any more proof, it came anyway, years later. When a disastrous diagnosis struck our mother, she was there, standing shoulder to shoulder with us, ready for battle. Our “other” sister. The Russian.