Hands That Created Gold

I wrote a personal narrative for school recently and decided to share it!

*Trigger Warning: Deals with the death of a loved one

I remember every second of the day my grandma died. I could say that the whole day was a blur, that I blocked the 24 hours before her death out of my mind, that I could never and would never try to remember it. But my nose would start growing and little leaves would pop out of it — I’d be lying. I can explain that day in more detail than I could describe my face. I see every second of that day in painstaking clarity. I remember how I felt seeing her there, lying helplessly with the oxygen mask holding down her face. The tight grip I had on her hand. The moment I felt her let go. The pitch of the flatline. The gut-wrenching feeling in my stomach seeing my brother cry for the first time. I remember walking to find the elevator, wondering if any of the nurses and doctors even noticed that I’d lost my best friend.

I was up at 6 that morning. By 6:40, I was driving up to the Allen Rink. I checked in and set up my post at the registration desk, where I would be sitting for the next 5 hours. In theory, my task was simple; ask for a name, sign them in through the computer, hand them their ID badge, and send them on their way. But because of the eardrum I ruptured when I was 7 and the sheer amount of noise that emulates from children ages 2 - 9, it was extremely difficult. The first few people were easy to get down. They had simple names. Names that were two American first names like Christina Lauren. There was an occasional mishap when a parent would name their child something typical but with a ridiculous spelling. If you tell me your child’s name is Jayceson but you don’t tell me how it’s spelled, sounding it out isn’t going to help anyone. Usually when this happened, I would ask them to spell it out and then it would get cleared up and I’d laugh it off in my head. The real problem was when people with a heavy accent and an ethnic name would come up to me and mutter. Confused and completely unable to hear their whisper, I’d ask them to repeat it again, and again, and again, and again. They would raise their voice, not to help me hear, but in a state of annoyance. Why do they have a 14-year-old sitting here instead of an adult who is capable of organizing an event? Hearing their tone change from “help the poor volunteer who isn’t getting paid” to “why is this stupid child helplessly sitting in front of me,” stung my eyes. My vision would go blurry as I’d ask them to spell it out for me. They ran through the letters of their name like I would be able to memorize all 17 of them in 3.87 seconds. My hands shook between each letter I could remember, praying that I hadn’t forgotten one. 

My mom was my biggest supporter but she was also my mom. To be my mom, she had to force me to continue working, even if I didn’t want to. She would constantly nag me. Every day it was “Sophia, do your violin,” or “Sophia, go workout.” In her defense, this was needed for me to be successful. If she didn’t do that, I’d probably end up a lazy couch potato who rotted away while watching Dance Moms. My Grammy, on the other hand, was my fan. Everything I did, she fully encouraged, no matter what. It wouldn’t matter if it was baking, or singing, or skating, or soap making; she fully supported me.  She did this by paying for everything, and what she didn’t pay for, she made up by driving. She paid for my music lessons and my baking supplies. She drove me to and from skating every single day. On Facebook, she would post pictures of my accomplishments and in the comments, her high school friends would say “Wow! Beautiful and gorgeous!” It was like I was a huge billboard that she sponsored. In moments when I wanted to give up, she always looked me in my eyes and said “Sophie, you are so special. I’ve never seen anything like it,” or she would say “You are Midas. Whatever your hand touches turns to gold!”

As I was typing their name into the computer, I heard my Grammy speaking to me, telling me to calm down. Earlier that week, she had been sent to the hospital. It was an old, new thing. It’s like when you start reading books for fun, it's new, but when you are on your 5th book it doesn’t feel so foreign. She was diagnosed with cancer around springtime and during the summer she moved in with me and the rest of my family. From July to October she was in and out of the hospital, so when she was admitted that week, I didn’t expect much to happen. I thought she would get admitted, stay for a few days, and come home in time to watch my first high school orchestra performance. The concert came and went and she was still in the hospital. Her not being able to watch me play for my big show while being the one who motivated me to continue playing my violin still keeps me up at night.

Later in the day, my brother, Kuya, picked me up and told me that we were going to visit Grammy. We parked in the employee garage thanks to my mom’s ID badge and walked in through the west entrance. I remember how sterile the lobby looked and how cold it was in the elevator. When I stepped into her room, I was usually greeted with a warm smile and her cheerily telling me hello. This time was different. The room felt silent and cold. Her grin was replaced by a cold stoic face. She said that it was getting harder and harder for her to breathe, even with the nose tube that gave her extra oxygen. Still not thinking much of it, I told her about my morning and sprawled out on the couch next to the window. On usual days, we spent about an hour in her room. That day, I spent 8 hours in that room. 

I went on with my normal routine; scrolling through Instagram, texting my friends, watching YouTube. I even filmed a Tiktok. To others, the video was insignificant. A video that people would completely forget about even filming. But not this one, because in my camera roll, it sits as a reminder of the calm before the storm. Whenever I scroll past it, the memories of that day flood my brain like a tsunami, taking over every square inch of my brain before eventually leaking out of my head and dripping onto my face. Before I know it my sleeves are drenched in tears and I have a used Kleenex box next to me.

At some point, the nurse came in and put a real oxygen mask on her. It looked like an N95 mask, just not as tight and clear. Seeing this wasn’t what made me realize how serious the situation was. However, my mom leaving her desk 8 floors up and my Grammy continuing to cough, was. How she said that the mask wasn’t helping. Suddenly, it all became real. It felt like when your ears pop and you hear the background noise your ears tuned out earlier. I heard the rustling of her bedsheets as she tried to get comfortable, the dripping of the shower head as they tried to get her to pee, the subconscious bouncing of my leg. I could hear my heartbeat slowly but gradually start gaining speed, and with every second faster it got, it was a little louder. One minute it was steady, then it was just a little faster and a little louder. And then it got even faster and even louder. Again, and again, and again until it stopped. All I could hear was the deafening ringing in my ears. The tears ran down my face like they had places to be. My brother took me out of the room and brought me to the lobby. He sat down, then I sat down on the other side of the lobby. He faced the hospital while I faced out. I couldn’t bear to face the way my brother was, knowing my best friend, MY Grammy, was in there suffering. Instead, I sat looking out the big glass window that faced downtown. It would have been beautiful, watching the trains run back and forward, seeing tiny ants run along, but it wasn’t. Knowing that she would want to be with people watching with me felt like a knife in the heart. I said to myself “I'll show her when she comes out. I'll show her how beautiful the city is from here.” I prayed that I’d be able to. 

My mom collected us from the lobby with news. My Grandma was getting transferred to the ICU and she would have to stay overnight. I didn’t really know what that meant, but by the redness in my Grandpa’s eyes, I knew it wasn’t good. Insisting that I finish my schoolwork, my mom sent me and my dad back to the house. I only spent 1 hour at home before I got the text. “Come to the hosp ASAP.” The moment I read that was the moment I knew what was going to happen. It confirmed everything I had feared. Every little thought that I had brushed away over the summer was right in front of my face. The question, which weighed a million tons, had been answered. 

My dad and I rushed back to that tiny little room. The walls were growing tighter and tighter. The space available was getting smaller and smaller. It felt like every breath, every sniffle, every word, was sucking the space away between everyone, creating a vacuum with nothing in it except worry, sadness, and the humans that those emotions reside in. At this point she had gone silent. Her N95 oxygen mask was now replaced with a heavy duty mask. It was absurdly large. With its size, came its pain. She was uncomfortable with it on. The redness grew around where the mask sat on her face. I hated how I couldn’t help her. Every single time I needed help, she was there for me. The days I had the worst skates of my life, she was there with me. Whenever my parents were arguing and I needed a place to stay, she was ready and prepared for me. She tucked the sheets of the bed I’d sleep in and put my favorite toys on the bed. She was always there for me, and the moment she needed me the most, I was useless.

Amidst the chaos, she tried to talk to me. I could barely hear her through the mask. Everything she said came out breathy and weak. She would slowly take my hand and I’d say “Yes Grammy?” She would try to speak but it wouldn’t work. Again, I’d ask her and again, she would try. She pushed her mask off to the side slightly and told me

“Sophie, tell them I am ready”

“What Grammy?”

“I am ready Sophie. Tell them I am ready” I can already feel the tears stinging in my eyes “Ready for what Grammy? The nurse is-”

“I want to see my family. I want to see my God. I want to die, Sophie. I am ready.”

Nothing could ever prepare you to hear the woman you looked up to your entire life say that she’s ready to die. Nothing will ever prepare you for having to tell the nurse that your grandma wants to be taken off of life support. Nothing will ever prepare you to pray over your grandma before she meets God. Nothing will prepare you to hear her struggling to breathe when they take the mask off. Nothing will prepare you to watch your mom lose her own mother. 

As we all encircled my grandma, we wept. One at a time, we went up and spoke to her, saying our goodbyes. These goodbyes were one-sided, as she couldn’t talk. The once adventurous woman who traveled across the world was gone. She didn’t have any energy left inside her. It was her sister first, then Kuya, then my Tito, then me. I told her how I would do what she dreamed. I told her about how I would build her garden behind my house. I told her that I would finally visit France, like we had always wanted to do together. The last words I ever said to her were “I love you Grammy. I love you more than anything in the world.”

The last person to talk to her was my mom. Mom said her first words to Grammy, and now she would be the one to say the last words to her. Everyone held onto my grammy as she left. I was holding on to my right hand as she held onto me. I felt when her grip loosened, and her fingers fell limp. We slowly watched as her O2 level hit 0. Something inside of me wanted to believe it could stop. She was my Grammy. If anyone was strong enough to reverse death, it was her. When she got up to heaven, she would tell God that she had to go back and that it wasn’t her time. That she had made a mistake. I wanted my Midas hands to start working. I wanted to turn her into gold. I wanted to make a miracle.

All of my thoughts cut off when the sound from the monitor ran straight. The big red number hit 0. The line had gone flat. She was dead.

Everyday, all around me, I see her. She was embedded into everything I did. I see her everytime I pick up my violin, and everytime I step on the ice. Whenever I walk into her house and smell the conditioner she used, I tear up. Walking into her garden without seeing all the overgrown weeds brought back all the memories of us together. She was the most positive influence in my life. She cared for me and nourished me. She inspired me to do better for myself. She was the reason I was Midas. She was what made everything in my life gold.