The Window

Trigger Warning: Death in relation to COVID 19. Please read with discretion.

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I’m shaking. It’s cold.

It’s night now. The moon is shining on our restless bodies. We pace, we shift our stances. We take nervous steps, but we can’t go too far. The clock after all, is ticking at an unknown speed. My sister hands me a coat to wear, I didn’t know we’d be standing out here. I look down at my feet, only now remembering it was my running shoes I chose to throw on hastily as I ran out the door. They’re covered in wood chips and dirt now. I hadn’t noticed.

We aren’t supposed to be here. I’m sure this isn’t allowed. None of this is right. But we aren’t going anywhere.

I remind myself to be thankful that you live on the first floor, otherwise we couldn’t be here at all, standing on these bushes outside of your room. I feel thankful for this window I’m looking through that gives me a full view of you. Its screen propped open allows me to better hear the sounds from inside. This window isn’t much, but it’s all we’ve got right now.

From this distance, about six feet away, I can see your face, as your body lies still under the covers. Your eyes are unblinking, they stare off into the distance. Your chest moves softly with each labored breath, the sound of which is faint, but still audible from this distance. I watch my mother pace around your bed, I can feel her panic from here. Frantically trying to call her sisters, so that you can also hear from your other two daughters, one last time. She finally rips her phone out of the plastic bag she was instructed to use. This call is too important. I see the alarm in her face, her shaking fingers as she dials. Her eyes dart repeatedly towards the window where we stand, desperately seeking an answer from us that we have no power to give. We don’t understand this either. We aren’t going anywhere, we are here until the end, I think, hoping she knows that.

Moments earlier, it was I who stood by your side. But before I could enter your room, I was given all of the gear needed to protect me from the virus that now consumes you. As I intentionally secured each piece onto their respective places on my body, another part of me wanted to scream, to run out the door. This isn’t right, how can this be happening? But knowing moments were fleeting, I quietly secured the mask over my nose, suddenly less able to breathe. I fit the face shield over my forehead, it must be too tight, I thought. I realized I had nothing to reference, I had never worn PPE before. Walking into your room, I watched my sister stand up as I entered. She looked so foreign underneath all the protective gear. I gave her forearm a gentle squeeze as she passed me, and heard the door close behind her.

At your side, I brushed your hair gently, hoping you didn’t notice that it wasn’t my fingertips that touched you, but latex gloves. I told you that I was there with you, that you weren’t alone. I told you as gently as I could, to please not be afraid. That my grandpa, your husband, who loved you more than anything, is waiting to hug you. I told you that you are safe, you are not alone. I pleaded with you to wait for your daughter to get here, she was so close. None of us knew how bad this was, she was speeding here as fast as she could. I desperately wanted to find the right words to speak to you, but what are they really? Does anyone actually know?

And with that realization, I did the first thing that came to mind; I began to recount memories. I told you that living with you when I was in college was so much fun, that I loved how you and Grandpa took care of me, how you made the most incredible home-cooked food for every meal. The floodgates of memories continued to open, and I was suddenly a child again, looking up at you. We walked through the mall, you flashed me a smile, blinking both eyes at me, sweetly. That was always my favorite of your expressions. You smiled joyfully, gesturing to the girl’s clothing section, telling me to pick out one thing I wanted. I was so excited; I think you were too.

Later as we drove home, I clutched my new sweater, observing it’s beauty, when I realized we were in a drive-through line. You ordered ten burgers. Intrigued, I asked why, but you wouldn’t tell me. Then within minutes, we pulled up to a seemingly random street curb. Next to us was a group of homeless men and women. You rolled down the window, waving them over. Afraid, I looked at your eyes, and you looked back into mine.

“They’re hungry, let’s feed them,” you told me. “Give them each a burger.” And so, I did. They each approached the car one-by-one, thanking us with a smile. As soon as we were done, with your eyes on the road, we simply drove home. I was full of feelings I had never felt before. You on the other hand, had clearly done this many times.

We never spoke much of that day, but I had learned all that I needed to. You simply saw a need in others, and did something to fix it. You weren’t afraid, nor concerned about appearance. All you wanted was to feed someone hungry. And as those who love you know, your love language was undoubtedly through giving food.

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Hearing a faint sound from the hallway, I was brought back to the room beside you. Squinting through the acrylic face shield fogged from my breath, I observed you lying in your bed. I tried to find the words to tell you how much you mean to me, but they were stuck somewhere in my chest. It just couldn’t come out right. And I just cried, feeling the pressure of the mask cupping my nose. And before I knew it, the door flew open, my mother walked in, and I was asked to leave. Only one of us could be by your side, and it undoubtedly needed to be her.

After peeling PPE off my body and exiting the lobby, I stood outside the building shaking, unsure what to do. I spotted my sister in the distance, waving me over. I followed her around the side of the building, through the bush

es, to the window where I stand now, watching you breathe.

All of your 3 daughters are with you now, two of them on the phone, and my mother by your side. The care nurse stands at the back of the room, timing your breaths with her watch. Your daughters tell you through the speaker that they love you so much. They’re thanking you for all that you’ve done for them. They cry. They tell you to not be afraid, that you are safe. They are so sorry they can’t be here, I can hear the suffering in their voices. Realizing they’re speaking Spanish to you, I look to my sister at my side, she’s quiet, her eyes are locked ahead. It dawns on me that she may not understand, and without thinking I quietly begin to translate. I don’t know if that’s what she wants. I hope it’s okay.

I hear my cousin’s voice on the phone now, he’s speaking to you, telling you he loves you too. I hope you can hear the words we’ve all been saying, I hope you can feel it despite how unmoving you appear. I hope you aren’t afraid. I hope desperately that you understand why we can’t all be right beside you, giving you comforting touches. My mother brushes your hair gently through her glove, reiterating the loving words that are being spoken through the phone.

You aren’t alone, Grandma. Can you feel it? Do you know your daughters are here with you? You must, because suddenly a tear falls from your eyes. Your daughters’ voices did it. They gave you the enormous strength it took to show us a sign that you can hear us. The love of a mother is powerful beyond words.

I feel tears on my cheeks again, because I suddenly think of my own young children at home, who are undoubtedly playing happily, unaware of what is happening to their Great-Grandma. My young sons had become regulars at the care home, entertaining a crowd of residents with toddler speeches. They learned how to push your wheelchair and comb your hair. I feel a lump in my throat as I realize my seven-month-old daughter will never get to meet you. She was born in the midst of the pandemic, when your care home was locked down. We were waiting patiently for you to meet her, to hold her, for you to see her round cheeks smiling up at you. We thought that time would come soon. I’m suddenly full of anger at what is happening. At the world. At this virus. This isn’t right. This can’t be it.

My sister and I hug between sobs because your breathing slows, and then stops. The nurse rushes over to find a heartbeat, and she can’t. She pronounces the time of death. You won’t be in pain ever again.

I watched my mother hunch over in sadness, the realization coming onto her like waves. What do we do now? She asks the nurse through tears.

Cry, the nurse replies.

And we do, all of us; my mother next to your bed, my sister and I in the moonlight. We sob. We hug. I look at my sister’s tearful eyes, then to my mother’s through the glass, unsure of how a person should grasp what had just happened.

I look at the window in front of me again. I’m thankful for it. And also, I hate it. I hate that this barrier kept me from being by your side. I hate that I can’t soothe my mother’s whimpers or pain through glass. I hate that you look so alone laying there, even though we are just feet apart. I hate that you had to go this way, that I had to watch it happen through this godforsaken window. I realize it is okay to be grateful for something, and also hate it. This window let me see you. The virus kept me apart from you.

I’ll choose now to close my eyes and see your famous blink. I’ll choose to see your smile and warm face as you open the door to your home, beckoning us inside. I can smell the familiar scent of your cooking in the air. I hear your sweet voice encouraging us to eat more of your food, despite knowing how full we were. I’ll choose to remember your best moments, some of my favorite life memories by your side. And I promise, Grandma Lor, to tell my kids the stories about you that bring me most joy. I promise that when I feed home-cooked meals to my own children, and someday (hopefully) grandchildren, I'll think of you. And I’ll do my best to give them the same safe, loving feeling you always gave to me in those moments. I’ll teach them what it means to give to others in need, in your name.

You will live on through us all.

I’ll miss you.

-Your Granddaughter