I sit here quietly, watching him, my mind at ease for the moment, but I still feel uneasy. The machines hum softly, keeping him alive for the time being. I keep thinking that if he doesn't wake up soon, we will have to turn of those miraculous machines and let nature do the rest. His face looks so pale and lifeless..hard to believe that this body once had livliness. I sense nothing from him at all. To me, he's already dead.
Why am I so calm when the person I love dearly lies before me dying? Is he aware of my presence? Why doesn't he wake up? Why is he being taken away from me? What did he do to deserve this? Why am I so confused? I don't think that I can hold out much lo nger. I haven't cried at all yet; not even when they told me he had cancer of the larynx, or when they said they found more, or when they said he was in a coma and was probably braindead.
It seems that there is a protective device in my heart, or am I just avoiding it? It fulfills, I think, a need in me to be strong and less of a 'weak female'. But must I also seem incompassionate, and even savage? It's just as if you refused to laugh, you would then be considered stupid.
When we are young, we are always told not to cry when we get hurt or angry at someone or something. Starting when we are babies, our mother's are constantly pleading for us to stop crying. However, we are always encouraged and applauded for laughter. Perhaps this is why we don't cry as much as we laugh. So, as we grow older, we become more savage than foolish. This idea is depicted in things such as 'business is business' and the preferred happiness over sadness in general.
Not crying at my grandfather's bedside shows indeed that I am somewhat savage, as humans have always been. I would much rather rejoice that his spirit will be free, than mourn over his death.
After he died, and I was miles away and it was years later, I did indeed cry over my loss. I feel no differently now than I did before. The fact of whether I cried or not doesn't change that I remain strong - and savage.
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