Six Feet Under

104 days. 
3 months, 1 week and 5 days. 
They died at the same hour. 
In the span of three months, both of my grandparents died. 
Both died in the home.
One I saw only three hours before, then found them.
One in my arms. 
And I don't know if I ever really processed it. Actually, I know I haven't.
When my grandmother died, I was awoken by my sister who said there was something wrong with grandma and that I needed to check. When she woke me up at 4.30 in the morning, I knew. I'd only gone to sleep an hour or so ago. It wasn't just the fear in her voice; I knew based on what I had observed the previous night. The day before my mother's birthday. And now that period of time is scarred. A time that used to mean something to me when I was little is now horrifically scared and there's nothing that can be done about it. I'll never be able to see that period as anything other than tarnished.

 It was odd the next day, trying to acknowledge my mother's birthday as if her mother just hadn't died the day before. I was dying to know how she was feeling about all this. I almost cracked under the internal pressure of not being able to ask questions. We didn't bring up the death. I made cupcakes with violet icing. Then we went to see Ralph at the rehab centre. He'd just gotten out of the hospital a few days before. He technically had just died and was brought back a week before she died. I remember when I got the call about Ralph. I was stood in the kitchen making chicken. I was talking to Jessica on Facebook, per usual when my mother rang. I felt a pure shot of adrenaline race through me. I felt a tingling sensation throughout my entire body as the words spilt out of my mother's mouth. "He's bleeding out! He's bled out! Once of his ulcers burst and there's blood all over! There's 30 doctors or something! He's dead! They're trying to bring him back. I'll ring you back when I know, just get his papers together!" Then I laughed. I'm not sure why or where it came from, but I clung to the counter and laughed. Barb was dying in the next room over, her oxygen machine humming away, her coughing and then there was me laughing like a lunatic over all the noise. She asked me what was funny and I couldn't tell her the news. I didn't tell her the news.  I told her it was just something that my mate and I were talking about and not to worry about it. She told me that I needed to see a therapist about this reaction. She didn't understand and it's probably best that I left out the part that I felt tingles consuming my body when I visualised the blood dripping from the bed, coating the floor in red, sticky puddles. I felt arousal follow the tingles as I inhaled and exhaled my thoughts of death. I wasn't bothered, I was excited. I felt alive and exhilarated, and it wasn't because I wanted his death. I just wanted to see, desperately wanted to see. I wanted to touch, taste, hear and see. I wanted to consume every moment of the even possible. 

At the rehab centre, he didn't want to talk about her. He just wanted a cupcake and to eat his dinner in peace. I knew better than to ask why I knew the statistical reasons and that he was a very closed off kind of bloke when it came to discussing emotions, but I wanted to hear him say it. I wanted to hear how badly he felt that his wife died after he constantly treated her like shit. I wanted to hear him admit that he regretted how he left her alone in the year (more or less) that she spent dying. I wanted to rub it all in his face. I wanted to bask in the man's tears. Now, I know how that makes me sound. It makes me sound like an evil, sadistic fuck and partly that is true. I wanted him to see how his actions left him alone at the end...I wanted him to see that he should have appreciated the time he had with her more, should have taken her for granted a lot less. As I stood in that moment I was projecting the way I wish people would speak about me to him. I wanted people to feel like shit for the ways they'd been treating me lately. I wanted to drink it all in, not just have it happen after I died. Complete selfishness. But I said nothing. I remained upbeat and chipper asking him about his rehab and the mates he'd made there. He told me about the sexy nurse and how he just wants to go home because he's sick all of all these depressing old people. I left him to chat with my siblings and mother and to go over his discharge summary with the nurse and learn the schedule I'd be having to keep him on as I was set to be his full-time caretaker in addition to just his medical guardian.
...
Before I dive into what happened with Ralph, I need to talk about the medical guardianship I was granted. It was first given to me by Barb. She chose me over her children, her siblings and her husband. She wanted me. I will never forget the afternoon after her diagnosis and she was told that she would need a medical guardian or proxy if she was unable to make her own decisions. I was chosen. Freshly 26, not even a month into being 26 I was told, "You are in charge of this woman's health, her life and death. You're to carry out any and all of her wishes, should you know them. You're to act in accordance with the doctor's orders and within her own wishes." And I just signed. She looked me dead in the eye and said, "Dan, I trust you. I know you won't hurt me and you understand. You'll keep me safe." So I signed my name on the paper and sat back for a second. I still have no idea why I was chosen over their close friends or in my grandmother's case siblings; sure I'm younger and a nimble fucker, live right above them, but they put their lives in my hands. MY hands.

It wasn't long before I was called upon again, this time, by Ralph. He told me that he saw all the dedication and hard work that I put into taking care of Barb and that he wanted me to do the same thing. He wanted me to take notes at all of his doctor's appointments, conference with the doctors and do his home rehab care. I think a part of him knew that he wasn't going recover. I had my sneaking suspicions but I didn't want to ask him what he thought about it, and I'm sure most of his doctors were aware based on the various test results. I feel like they didn't think he'd go so fast. You don't always know. So I signed my name on the line, taking full responsibility for him again. He didn't think to ask anyone else. He wanted me making his decisions. I asked him why he chose me a few weeks later and he said. "Because you know all about this and you're less of a dumbass as the other lot. My kids argue and don't listen to what I want. They've disobeyed since childhood and adulthood have done nothing for them." Fair enough. 
...
Ralph's death was a little bit less peaceful. I don't like the term pass away. To me, it feels somewhat misleading and empty. It leaves me wondering. You don't pass away, you fucking die. Death is one of the few areas of life where I'm not big on euphemisms. This was one of the few times when I let my instincts be outweighed by my fatigue and annoyance and gave in. I knew that he shouldn't be leaving the bed. I didn't want to move him. I knew he was weak and if we lifted him up to go to the bathroom like he wanted he would either die there or in my arms on the way back to the bed. Well, it was the second choice. He argued with me after waking me up and I was too pissed off and tried to listen to my instincts or the logic of keeping him in the bed, so I lifted him up and got him to the toilet. I set him on the toilet and turned so he could do what he thought he needed to do. We sat for close to 20 minutes before he decided that it was hopeless and that he just wanted to go back to bed. I knew it was it. I just had this sinking, yet racing feeling. I needed to get him back to the bed as soon as I could. I pulled him up and got his jammy bottoms up and together. He felt frailer than before. This was it. I was dealing with minutes here. I pulled him to me as he stumbled, unable to support his own weight. I watched the light go out in his hazel eyes. I stood for a second, his upper body in my arms, his legs dangling. What a way to die. Since dead bodies weigh more than alive, my brother helped me lift him into the bed so that we were respectful. I checked his pulse, heart and eyes to ensure he was gone. Once I'd completed this, I pulled his duvet over him and went to ring my mother and tell her that her father just died. 

I finished that and returned to his room to sit with the body. One should never leave a body unattended especially when the police are going to come and ask questions as they always do. Once my mother arrived, I gave her some time with him while I went to inform the police that we'd had a death in the home and needed it to be checked out. They annoyingly brought EMTs-like seriously, what the fuck were they there for? He was already dead and he did have a DNR, which I had a copy of and to which I was a witness.  I presented them with the paperwork and the doctor's notes, informing them they were well aware that he would probably pass over the weekend. Okay, I said die, which seemed to distress the EMT, but I was just there all calm, cloaked in black (per usual) and composed while my mother crumbled to the side and my siblings whispered anxiously in the kitchen. Really, I don't see the point of the big show. It's just dying.

They pronounced him and called him in, while I sat twiddling my thumbs. Once they left I was able to take care of the body just like I did with my nan's, Clean, prepare, redress and then rang the funeral home to have him transported. They'd had the service laid out in advance and I was helpful loading him into the van. The man remembered me. "I remember you, you helped with the elderly woman we had here a few months back." "Yes, I did. Now you wanna be careful with that?" I was calmer than him almost. It was nice to be around like-minded folks. 
...
It hit me earlier when I was working on another piece that I will never see their graves again. I mean, I could go there, but chances are slim to none that I'd ever venture there. The last time I saw them was when I was preparing their bodies, washing them, cleaning them, dressing them. That is now the memory that I have of them. It feels like the older memories, some of the better memories are being rewritten-written over by their last days I spent with them when their death loomed over our heads. I was aware death was coming but both of them were so out of it, I'm not sure they really knew. Both made little comments about it, their reactions were both something completely different. 

What I saw at both of their viewings and funerals was an absolute disgrace. I, the caregiver of both of there people, people who other's claimed to love, be friends with and cherish, was completely ignored. It was as if I was apart of the viewing room. No one offered any comfort or condolences. What the fuck was I? Still the family disgrace? Still the joke of the lot? This is one of the reasons I hate funerals; they are a time to express such cruelty and everyone acts as if it's okay because of grief. Well, that's not true. People use grief or use viewings/funerals as a way to be complete arseholes. They hide behind other things, rather than owning their feelings. It's distressing. And people want to give me shit for not showing proper emotions. I'm distressed not because of death but because they get a pass to act like assholes and I never get one. It's jealousy. How fucked up is that? Maybe it's not so fucked up after all. Maybe I'm the most human of them all.

It was more than that, though. Nobody really showed up. They paid for their own humiliation. I mean, I know they wanted small private ones for friends and family only, but pretty much no one showed up. All of their quote "friends" ignored them except for 3 of them. What the fuck? They paid for a memorial and didn't really even get one. What kind of shit is this? And memorials/viewings are expensive too. I think they got a raw deal there.
I sometimes feel time ticking away. I feel the clock in my bones, slowly reminding
me that it will soon be my time. The one thing I want the most control over, I can't. It bothers me. Does time even exist anyway? I don't think so. I think it's just a collective stream of consciousness shared by the human animal. No other creatures have senses of time, nor do they possess the same level of intellect and consciousness that humans do. I'm not bothered by the death part, but the humiliation after. No doubt it will find a way to bore into me after I've shuffled off my mortal coil. 

I wrote this as a way to work out my feelings around the time both of them died and my experiences after. I don't have many feelings other than disgust run through me the past 6 months over this. I've been filled with all sorts of thoughts and reflections about my own health, eventual death and the aftermath. I've re-evaluated a tonne of things. Some parts of me are left at a crossroads here and not just in the ways of health, but with my future. I'm not sure what I'm doing anymore. I spent the last almost two years caring for both my grandparents and working my other job and I don't know what to do anymore. Nobody has any advice. Their empty sentiments only worsen the agony that I feel; they don't understand and I think a lot of them make no effort to understand because then it would a. make them think or b. make them look at their own situations. I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm just trying to paddle along.