Eye Contact

I was twelve, my thoughts drowning out the beeps of the hospice equipment and the chatter of my family down the hall. It was my turn to sit next to my grandmother and keep her company, despite the fact that she hadn’t opened her eyes or mumbled a word in three days.

 

 I felt numb to the pain of losing her, having watched her slow decline for years prior. The time had come for her to pass on, but I had already mourned the loss of the vibrant, soulful woman who beat men at poker, made homemade tomato sauce at the crack of dawn, and refused to get a Christmas tree shorter than ten feet. 

 

I was reading to pass the time when I felt an inward pull to look up from the pages. Nothing was visibly different. The oxygen tubes were still firmly in place, the heart monitor drawing steady waves, cards mixed with wilting flowers crowded the dresser’s top, and a singular ladybug was making its way up the arm of the hospital bed. But the energy had shifted. There was a breeze despite the window and door being closed – a sense of urgency and sanctity coated the air.  

 

Feeling a call to act, without knowing its significance, I took my grandmother's hand and said with reverence, “I love you.” 

 

What happened next caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand and a chill reverberated through every limb. Despite all odds, her eyes opened slowly and she looked not through me but into the depths of my being, as a singular tear dripped affectionately down her face.

 

The emotion I was feeling can only be described as pure shock. I knew the magnitude and rarity of the moment, and I did not want to waste it. So I repeated the same variation of what I had said before like a prayer: I love you so much. We all love you more than you will ever know. Thank you. Thank you for everything you have done for us. I love you. Thank you. 

 

Tears continued to stream down both of our faces, saying more than any words could. Her eye contact alone conveyed her presence. I can hear you. I love you too. You are so welcome my dear. Thank you. I will be okay. It is alright. 

 

Like an afterthought, I called out for my family to come in, and we were all able to bask in the answered prayer of one more moment of connection – to look into each other’s eyes and say what we needed to make the pain hurt less. 

 

A few minutes later her eyes shut for the last time, and soon after that she was gone. 

 

Losing one’s grandparent is no novel experience. The magnitude of that moment lies not in the grief, but in the divinity that was witnessed: the energetic communication that connected us not by blood but through spirit. 

 

I hold on to that memory like a talisman, feeling my grandmother’s presence in every windowless breeze and seeing her in every ladybug landing.