Lost
by Johnny Nys
It's 4.00 pm so I head home. I always use the excuse to be
able to leave this early that I have to drop off the outgoing
mail before the last pick-up, which is somewhere between
four-thirty and five. I always arrive home at four-thirty.
Usually, I make that drop as promised, but this time
something pulls me home. I would drop the mail off in the
morning this time, before I return to work. I just have to be
home right now.
I turn the corner and immediately hit the breaks. Two
hundred metres ahead is my house. There's an ambulance
parked directly in front of it. I give a little gas and roll up
behind it. It's blocking the driveway, so I park by the side of
the street. I shut off the engine and stay seated. I don't want
to get out, even though I know I will have to eventually.
I don't know how long I sit there, but as expected, I
eventually step out. I leave my backpack. It's empty, anyway.
It held my lunch for four hours, two cheese sandwiches and
some strawberry yoghurt for dessert. That's my lunch for
every working day. Sometimes someone at work doesn't
bring lunch and goes to a sandwich bar at noon and asks
around if anyone wants anything. Then I place an order as
well. A ham and cheese sandwich with lots of vegetables
and mayonnaise. Yummy. Since last month, we also have a
soup dispenser. You can choose tomato, mushroom or
chicken. I always take tomato.
Johnny Nys
I walk around the car toward the ambulance. I glance into
the driveway. I live at my parents' home, so naturally I think
something happened to one of them. Then I remember my
grandparents have a small house behind ours, at the end of
the driveway, between the house and the garage. It's more
logical for something to have happened to them, instead. My
grandfather has been in the hospital twice already this last
year. The first time was after he fell down while taking out
my grandmother's bicycle for her weekly tour. She's in this
club, all elderly women who go riding every Tuesday and
sometimes even on Sunday, while their husbands stay
behind to talk about pigeons. Perhaps one of the pedals hit
him in the back of the knee. We don't really know. He might
as well have had some sort of attack. Doctor's never tell us.
And if they do, parents never tell me. They still consider me
the little kid of the family. My sister is ten years older. All my
cousins are around her age as well.
I walk the entire length of the driveway to my
grandparents' house. The door's open and I hear voices
inside. Suddenly, my aunt rushes out in tears, followed by
my two uncles. I don't see my dad anywhere.
"We're going to lose him!" my aunt cries while the men try
to comfort her. They're oblivious to me. I enter.
Inside are several male nurses surrounding the living
room table. My grandfather is sitting in one of the chairs,
head resting on a game of solitaire. "He won't wake up," I
hear someone say, although I have no idea who. I just stand
there and watch as they take him out of the chair and put
him on a gurney, then roll him to the ambulance. In a few
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minutes, they disappear down the street. Then I turn around
and see my dad. He goes back inside and returns to his
television show.
When I go to visit him a few days later, we all know what's
wrong with Grandfather. The heart. Completely worn down.
It's only a matter of days, hours maybe. He's very thin and
fragile, lying in the hospital bed, but he laughs and
recognizes everyone. For now, at least. Occasionally, he
breaks out in a rant about conspiracies and people trying to
kill him. His mind is probably reliving his war days. He's
convinced the red fire extinguisher he can see in the hall
through the door is a Russian coming to assassinate him. He
tells stories about doctors injecting him with all kinds of weird
stuff. People strapping him down, plotting to kill him.
I leave after an hour or so, still convinced he's going to
make it, he's going to get better. I'll see him again, I'm sure.
This can't be the last time I held his hand. It just can't.
My dad must believe that to, for he almost never comes
along on these visits. Only when there's absolutely nobody
else available to drive my grandmother, does he go.
Otherwise, he stays home and watches TV or reads. If he
thought his dad was going to die, wouldn't he stay with him
all the time he had left? I know I would …
I'm at my girlfriend's place when the phone rings. I always
spend the weekends there. We live a long way apart, too far
to meet during the week. Before someone can answer, I
know who it is. My mother. I think I know why she's calling.
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Johnny Nys
And moments later, I'm proven right. The hospital had called
that morning. It was time. So they all rushed over there. By
noon it was over. I guess I am the only one of my family who
ate lunch today, at the time still unaware of what was going
down one hundred kilometres away.
We go to the bedroom and cry it out. We knew it was
going to happen, but still it feels hard when it actually
happens.
No use in returning home now, my mother says. Calm
down a bit, wait till evening. There's nothing left to do.
So I drive back home around seven thirty, a little earlier
than I usually do on other Sundays. More than usually, also,
I check the speedometer to make sure I don't go over the
limit. I'm pushing it, though. I want to get back home as fast
as I can and is legally possible at the same time. Imagine the
cop pulling me over walking up to my window and asking
why I'm driving so fast with: "Who died, son?" Better to spare
both me and him the embarrassment.
It's Wednesday and I'm leaving the church after the wake.
My sister quickly escapes for home. She doesn't want to see
him. I understand. But I want to go. So I walk next to my dad
as we lead the group to the funeral home. When we arrive, it
turns out we've been walking pretty fast. The others are
almost one hundred metres behind us. We wait at the
entrance, then go inside together.
He's not lying in a coffin, but on a bed. He'll be cremated
tomorrow and we've rented a coffin for the funeral. He's
looking very peaceful. Thin, of course. Far too thin. No
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glasses. I can't believe he'll never move again. I can't believe
he'll never speak again. He used to tell stories all the time,
about the war mostly. You couldn't shut him up. Now,
something had. I don't know what. A disease, old age, how
do you describe it? It's death, plain and simple and if you
think too much about it, you'll go insane.
The funeral is on Friday instead of Saturday because we're
leaving on vacation this weekend. A bad coincidence, but
there's nothing we can do about it. We made reservations
months ago, no possibility to change them. And who knows,
a week on the beach might be good for the grieving process.
The church is packed. As expected. He was a good guy,
had many friends, and all that. He helped build many houses
in our town. He was a contractor before retirement. Once in
a while people still called him for a job because he was still
listed in the yellow pages. Suppose someone calls again,
unknowingly?
After the service, we head for the cemetery. They put the
rented coffin on a pedestal of some sort, then hold a small
ceremony. Then we leave the scene so they can clean
things up. After a few minutes, they invite us back to see the
ashes being spread out. There's probably a one word term
for it, but it doesn't spring to mind. Once more, my sister
stays behind but I want to see. I want it, so there won't be
any regrets later on. I don't want to think some time in the
future: "I should have …"
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Johnny Nys
Before I know it, the jar is opened and the contents are
poured on this piece of lawn in a corner of the cemetery.
There's so much, so white with only a few hints of grey. How
hot had the fire been? That's all I think about, until in the
end, realization hits me.
There he is. That's all that's left of him and it's lying in the
grass, vulnerable to the elements. A wind will come and blow
him away. Rain will come and he'll seep into the ground.
That's it. Why cremation? Why not a grave, something we
can visit? Where do you go when you want to talk to him
again, or at least to his spirit? To this corner of the
cemetery? Isn't it crazy to talk to grass?
It's the end of the ceremony and we leave for coffee and
sandwiches. Ham and cheese. No vegetables. No
mayonnaise. My grandmother sits at the head of the table.
She's not eating. My aunt and uncles take turns in sitting
next to her.
After a while, everybody leaves, one at a time coming
over to greet her. So do we, as some of the last ones. We go
back home and life goes on. We've lost someone, yes, but
the key is not to lose yourself. I plan to heed the lesson.
We're not immortal. But if you don't pay attention to details
and take your time to enjoy everything life has to offer, why
would you hurry from one place to another? You can't outrun
death. My dad might have it right somewhere. He sits in the
couch and reads books and magazines or watches
television. He doesn't hurry. He's clearly enjoying life. He
worked plenty in his day. Time for a breather.
So breathe.
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