I had the privilege of being the last to hear my grandmother’s heart beat. When you pronounce someone in a hospital, there are usually heart monitors and other machines to confirm their passing. A host of other medical professionals are usually standing by, and a curious stillness after the cacophony of chest compressions and beeping machines enters the room. It is like a held breath, just long enough for the exact hour and minute to be noted, and then everything begins again, the clock restarted, time marching onward. Gloves snap, charts close, trays rattle, and all the people melt away, on to the next pressing task.
In hospitals, signs of holidays are everywhere to keep patients oriented to time and place, and to cheer up staff and visitors. Valentine’s Day is no different, red and pink hearts decorating hallways and doors. Perhaps because my work was in cardiology, Valentine’s Day always carries a different meaning for me, all the emphasis on hearts reminding me of the steady beats I listen to every day.
The night my grandmother passed away, the rhythmic rise and fall of soft, sad voices in prayer filled the spaces between each beat and breath. I knelt beside her bed, my fingers on her pulse, feeling the erratic beats slow. Without a monitor, I had to trust my trembling hands to lay my stethoscope on her chest.
Absence of sound is a funny thing. You have to listen longer, to the in-between spaces that stretch out, a ribbon of silence, and it is you that pulls away, weighing the likelihood of sound against your willingness to listen further. I bend my neck, a prayer, the blessing of this moment heavy on my head.
In that moment, I am a child again, kneeling at my grandmother’s bedside, hesitantly echoing her words, the air in the darkened room heavy and still, time marked not by the ticking of a clock, but by decades of Hail Marys. In those hours at her feet, the sounds of my mother’s country molded my tongue, and I say the Sign of the Cross in Vietnamese, joining my family in benediction and intercession. I look at my watch, unable to see the numbers through my tears.
My grandmother was born in the Year of the Snake. Like clocks, a calendar in those days wasn’t important, the tasks of the day tied to the setting of the sun and the turning of the seasons from wet to dry, harvest to sowing, and so we don’t know her exact birth date. It seems wrong somehow, that instead of honoring the date she came into this world, we observe the date of her death. She was not sad, but ready, longing to be in Heaven with her angels, two little boys who died in childhood, in the days before vaccines or antibiotics. I learned about the power of grief from her, as she told me stories about her clever little boys, rheumy eyes still wet with memories from decades long before, when she was a young mother losing her sons.
I grew up under those watchful eyes, her hands always slightly gnarled, but soft and smooth, as if the years of running rosary beads between her fingers had transferred the smoothness to them. My earliest memories are of being with her, eating crusty French bread dipped in Borden’s condensed milk, or walking around our apartment complex through early morning dew. She never really seemed to age, until after I moved out into my own home, married with children of my own, carrying my stethoscope like a talisman as I made my way through the world.
In the year before she died, my grandmother was hospitalized where I frequently did rounds. In that hospital bed, surrounded by those beeping machines, she was so much smaller than I remembered, and so much less herself. The nurses and physicians would comment on what a sweet patient she was, and how attentive my family was, as she was never left alone. Though she received excellent care from the staff, I am grateful that she did not die in that hospital bed. Instead she died at home in her own bed, surrounded by family. The oxygen saturation of her last breath was not measured, her arms lay untouched by IVs or needles, my stethoscope the only foreign thing in her room. Hers was the most peaceful death I have ever witnessed.
There were no machines, no trays, no gloves, just the soft touch of loving hands folded in prayer. I do not know the hour or the minute of her passing, and it is not noted in anyone’s chart. I know it was the year of the Dog, and that my grandmother finally went home to be with her angels.