Autumn He A Dying Jewel

A Dying Jewel

Autumn He

“Don’t bring me flowers when I die if you didn’t bring me any while I’m alive.”

Those words that my Granny had repeated a million times echoed in my brain as I placed the faded, red, single-stemmed, silk rose among the other vibrant flower arrangements on the cold, dead grass beside Granny’s tombstone. I knew my single rose was the only one she had seen before. Nearly twenty years ago, my three-year-old self had little concept of death, but still tugged on my Granny’s pleated pants, begging her to buy the rose to put on her grave when the time came. She agreed, storing the rose in her kitchen on her old baker’s rack, and she made sure to remind me on a regular basis that it would still be there when she was gone. Taking one last look at her grave, I pulled my jacket tighter around my body and walked to my car parked in the crowded cemetery.

During my childhood, Granny and I spent many nights embroidering elaborate floral patterns onto pieces of cut-up sheets, which she would then turn into patchy pillowcases or framed artwork, while listening to Channel Thirty-Nine, the local gospel station. She would tell me stories about times before I even existed: stories about her marriage, her awful mother-in-law who moved in with her shortly after marrying my grandpa, my grandpa sneaking away to smoke a cigarette hoping that she wouldn’t find out, and nearly every Sunday she had spent at church. Granny would loudly sing along with the only customized ringtone she’s ever had whenever her old Motorola flip phone would begin blaring “Delta Dawn.” It was her favorite song, and I’m sure she sang with or without an audience. Those therapy sessions while embroidering went unrecognized throughout most of my childhood and adolescent years. I now realize I had never truly appreciated those painful needle pokes, weekly repeats of the same out-of-tune songs blaring over radio static, or hilarious renditions of her past riffs with her mother-in-law.

Just a week prior to her death, I received a frantic call at work from my mother letting me know Granny had fallen while home alone and was being hospitalized for a broken hip. I arranged to leave as soon as my shift was over and made it back to my hometown in a record-breaking two and a half hours. Being in the medical field and working in an assisted living facility before, I knew the outcome of a broken hip was never as simple as it sounded, but I remembered what Granny had told us over and over.

“I’d rather die than go to a nursing home,” Granny had firmly said on multiple occasions, holiday dinners included. “Those people there are so pitiful. If it’s my time to go, then so be it.”

“But Granny, if you die, then we can’t see you,” I would remind her with a hug and a kiss on her wrinkled cheek.

When I arrived at the hospital, her condition had drastically declined after suffering from a stroke while undergoing a heart catheterization. Her usually cheerful aura with a smiling face was now one of silence; her face was drained of color and soft groans escaped her chapped lips ever-so-often. Later that evening, Granny woke up and managed to talk, mostly asking for water swabs, and she gave me a small grin when I kissed her cold cheek and told her I loved her as I was leaving to go to a nearby hotel for the night. It would be the last smile I would ever receive from her.

That night, alone in the hotel, I didn’t sleep. Memories of my weekends at Granny’s house and advice she had given me swirled around in my brain like a tornado. Somewhere in there was her voice saying, “I’m gonna’ slap your jaws,” her tonguein-cheek threat to me growing up, as each tear rolled down my face and sobs echoed throughout the hotel room. She had told me a million times not to cry if anything happened. I should not have any regrets; I had spent more time with her than anyone, and she increasingly mentioned that I had kept her company when she needed it the most, especially after the death of her daughter, my Mimi. However, no matter how many days and nights I had spent on that old couch with needle and thread, it still didn’t feel like enough.

The next morning, I returned to the hospital to tell Granny I would be leaving, work was expecting me later that day. The rays of sunshine poured in through the gap between the musty, brown curtains and cast a warm yellow glow to the previously dark room lighting up her stormy grey eyes that struggled to stay open as she stared blankly at me. I couldn’t help but notice she looked like an angel. Her pale skin now seemed smoother and brighter. Her short, silver hair laid perfectly across her forehead in gentle ocean waves. Knowing that this may very well be our last moments together, I took a few moments and etched the feel of her hand on mine permanently into my memories. I told her I loved her one final time and said I would rush back to see her again. As I was walking to the door, something told me to look at her again.

“I love you, too,” Granny whispered, barely loud enough to understand. Her solemn stare told me this would be the last time I would see her.

Concealing my tears, I smiled and blew her a kiss, rushing out the door before the floodgates opened. I walked into the fluorescent hallway where numerous friends, neighbors, and family huddled just beyond her door, all whispering about her condition. The only comfort I had as I strolled through the parking lot and got into my car was knowing Granny would most likely get exactly what she wanted, no nursing home. I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket and turned on “Delta Dawn” and began my journey back home.

The next day, Granny passed away peacefully surrounded by family and friends.