It's been 49 days since my grandfather passed away. It is a Vietnamese custom to wear a white bandana during the funeral ceremony to signify our grief. After 49 days, it is custom to take those white bandanas and burn them. My mom, my grandmother, and my sisters went to my grandfather's grave and burned the bandanas today.
I don't really show it, but my grandfather's death still hurts. The sad thing is, I wasn't very close with my Ong Ngoai (maternal grandfather). A week before his funeral, my mom asked me if I wanted to say something about my grandfather, sort of a mini-eulogy on behalf of the grandchildren. I couldn't; I had nothing to say. The memories I have of my grandfather consist of him taking me and Tina to McDonald's for breakfast before school. That was years ago, before the seemingly endless hustle and bustle of school and work took over my life.
When I had heard he went to the hospital, I was mildly concerned, but thought it was probably like the other times before; something happened, and he would be in and out the same day. Not this time. He had a stroke which left his pretty much paralyzed. The first time I saw him in the bed at the ER, he was so drugged out, I didn't even know if he was still alive. I was in and out of the ER for a week. Things took a turn for the worse; the doctors were going to do a procedure, but were afraid that if they did it, his heart wouldn't be able to take it. I remember the day they were going to take him off the medication so he would be alert and the family could say good-bye. Christine picked me up from work and drove me to the ER. I came into his room and stood next to his bed. My mom was telling him I was there and I'll never forget the way he looked at me. His eyes were half open, and I can see his eyes moving towards me. I think he sort of panicked because he tried to move and couldn't, not realizing what the stroke had done to him. Seeing my grandfather like that was one of the hardest I ever had to do. My mom was trying to calm him down. I couldn't take it anymore. I silently said good-bye and walked out with tears rolling down my face. I put the hood over my head so none of the nurses could see me cry. When I opened up the double doors to where my family and Christine were, I kept my head down and walked right past them, trying not to let them see me cry, but it was too much. I stood there in the hallway and let it all out. After that, I never came back to the hospital.
On November 28, 2008, the nurses came in to roll him in his bed. My uncle had left the room and my mom was coming from the cafeteria. Sometime within those 10 minutes, he died. Alone. My mom took it the hardest; she was there every day and every night for 2 weeks and, when he died, she wasn't there. When I heard he passed away, I didn't let myself cry right away. I had to be strong, for my mom. I never said anything and I kept it all inside.
On the day of the funeral, I tried to be strong for everyone in my family. But as soon as the white bandana touched my forehead, I started to cry. I knew what it meant -- he was really gone. I collected myself and came up to the casket with my family to pay our respects. After I said good-bye one more time, the tears came back. I tried to cover my face so no one could see, but it was no use. The next day during the procession to the crematorium, I was outside with my cousins while my father and my uncle brought the casket to the oven. When the casket was inserted, my Uncle Trung, my grandfather's eldest son, pushed the button. Outside, I saw my aunts and my grandmother crying and I couldn't hold it in. I wanted so bad to wipe the tears from my eyes, but I had no free hands. I stood there crying.
I've only been to my grandfather's grave once. I guess not much has changed, since work still keeps me from seeing my grandfather. It's sad now to think that the most recent memory I have of my grandfather is of his funeral. But I'll always remember the times we did spend together. And though I never said it out loud, I'll always miss you and I'll always love you, Ong Ngoai.
Love,
Chris
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