I shuddered as we walked down the endless hallway, passing room after room of depression and death. At least, that's how I thought of it anyway. The never ending monotonous beeping, funny smell, and awkward feeling you get when you walk through a hospital is unnerving. My heart broke every time I saw a child with some hideous contraption attached to them, or an elderly couple stranded in their wheel chairs while their nurse gossiped to the receptionist. I hate hospitals, and I think I always will.
Finally, we arrived at my grandfather's room. Just four days ago, he went through a triple-bypass procedure on his heart. The surgery went through without any complications, and he has been recovering quickly since. But something horrible happened just yesterday, and although I'm not completely aware of what it was, my grandmother said something to the effect of, "There was blood everywhere."
That one sentence was enough to make my blood curdle.
As I slowly shuffled into the dark room, I saw my grandfather sitting up, talking with my grandma. Grandma exchanged greetings with us, thanking us for coming, and so on. I was too busy gawking at the scar on my grandpa's chest to notice much.
"Well, hey, girls!" Grandpa smiled.
"Hi, Grandpa!" my sister and I chimed softly.
As my mom and grandma started chatting to each other, my grandpa said, "Heh, want to the the nasty scar they left me?" he chuckled.
"Yeah, I do!" my sister whooped and stared at the scar with perverse interest. I laughed sheepishly and shook my head. My dad laughed.
Trying to keep my eyes on anything but his scar, I looked around the shadowy room. I could feel the blood draining from my cheeks, and eventually I had to sit down. I fought the urge to gag as my grandpa explained everything they did, and I couldn't focus on the muted Jeopardy episode on TV.
As my mind reeled with queasiness, I took refuge in my memories. One in particular stood out to me, the last memory I had of my grandpa before his surgery....
"Ah, you'll promise o' grandpa you'll visit him, right, Nee?" I smiled when he used the wrong name; he always mixes me up with Nee-chan.
"I promise, Grandpa!" I said joyfully.
"Good, good. You know how much I hate hospitals," he mumbled happily.
I snapped back to reality as my grandpa mumbled anxiously, "W-where'd that Denny go...?"
"Here!" I called from across the room. I was sitting on the couch so I wouldn't faint.
He stared at me blankly for a moment, then said, "Alright..." and resumed talking with my sister and dad.
All of the sudden, I felt this urge to cry. The urge that tugged my lips into a frown, formed a lump in my throat, and most of all the tears that stream down your face. It was so unexpected, I almost started. Slowly, I breathed in and out and fought with as much will as I could against the tears.
If there's anything I hate more in the world than crying, it's fighting the urge to cry. My vision kept getting blurred and swirled as the tears grouped, and I blinked them away angrily. Why was I crying?! Get a grip, Denny, he's not dead!
And then it hit me. A wave of realization that crashes into you and sucks you into the sea of unwanted answers.
I was crying because he didn't die, and because no one died. Not that I wanted him to die, oh no, far from it. But no one in my life has died. I have two loving parents, two great siblings, two healthy pets, four grandparents, and every friend I've ever had. I've never felt the pain of being alone.
Never.
Just like when a spoiled kid sees how rotten they've become, I've seen how ignorant I've become. How many times have I said, "No, I'd rather see a movie than go to my grandparent's house," or, "No thanks, I think I'll stay home today."
And now it all crashed down on me, and that's why I was sobbing.
After a few minutes that seemed to last hours, I finally lost. The tears washed down my face, dropping on my clenched hands. I quickly wiped them away, before anyone saw. The effort was in vain, however, and they seeped through even my hands. One pesky tear ran under my nose, and with an abrupt sniff, I made a horrid sound that screamed, "I'm crying!" to everyone in the room. Thankfully, they were too busy to notice.
I realized after my futile attempts that they would figure out I was crying. They'd buzz around like worried chickens until I told them what was wrong. There was no way I would do that, though. I was sure my eyes must have been beet-red, and I couldn't control my involuntary sniffs.
I jumped as my dad mused, "Aw, look at Denny. She's so pale! Maybe we should go." A chorus sang, "Hallelujah" in my mind. My dad thought I was queasy (which wasn't entirely a lie) and I could seek refuge in the dark car and cry all I wanted there.
As we said our goodbyes, I forced myself to look Grandpa in the eye. I hope he didn't notice my tears gathering, because I turned quickly and strode out of the room.
God, I'm so confused. I should be happy I've been so blessed, but here I'm sobbing because of it.
I've been spoiled by love.
