Learning to let go

By Jaime Escamilla

I relive the moments every couple of days. It used to be every other minute, but time has had mercy on me. The phone call, oh, the dreaded phone call. There is a distinct ring to bad news. You think I would have a problem with phones by now. It's never easy to lose someone you love. I know this. Trust me, I know this.

I was motivated and excited when I got accepted to Humboldt State University for spring of 1999. It was a chance to break free from the daily grind of Bay Area life. I was starting to feel smothered in San Jose. People just didn't care anymore and I wanted to try something different. So when I won an award for photography at my junior college and HSU beckoned, I came running. I packed up all my crap, rushed north in my Jetta, and immediately immersed myself in the people and the surroundings. It felt great to be somewhere fresh and new.

I was uneasy about the move. I have never lived more than a minute and a half away from my grandparents. My papa -- which is how I referred to my grandfather -- had suffered a serious stroke during my senior year of high school, four years ago, and it had left him paralyzed on his left side and wheelchair-bound.

"I promise you that I will take care of myself," said my grandfather as I prepared to move. "Your nana and I are going to be just fine. I will be there for your graduation. Go to Humboldt State and make us proud. What am I saying? You always make me proud."

Jaime Escamilla learned to deal with the grief associated with the loss of loved ones. photo by Kevin Bell

I needed reassurance even though I knew that a promise like that would be difficult to keep. You know, if he had never made that promise to me I might have not have been so mad at him when he passed away a few months later.

Have you ever been the apple of someone's eye? I have and it's a wonderful feeling. I could do no wrong. I was perfect in my grandfather's eyes and it's nice to have someone feel that way about you. So when he told me that he was going to be OK while I finished up my education six hours away from home, I believed him. I knew my grandfather wouldn't let me down, he never had before.

Then one night, the phone rang.

"Jaime, you need to get on the next flight home. It doesn't look good," said my mother. These horrifying words shattered my world.

I had just transferred here. I had only known the people around me for about four months. Don't get me wrong; I was surrounded by a group of wonderful people who flooded me with compassion. But at that particular point, nothing could be said that was going to make me feel any better.

The plane ride home was the worst. I was alone and unwilling to make eye contact with anyone. I knew I would burst into tears if anyone looked at me. So when the stewardess came by and asked if I needed anything, I turned toward the window and shook my head. I didn't want her to see the pain in my eyes. I didn't want anyone to see.

When I finally got off the plane, I ran toward my mother and my sister's boyfriend. From the grave looks on their faces, I assumed the worst. Little did I know the worst was to come.

My grandfather was on a respirator and his breathing was raspy and shallow. He had suffered another massive stroke. I walked toward the hospital bed. Machines beeped, whirred and decompressed. My eyes memorized every crevice and crease in the thin sheet that covered his chilled body. My hero lay unconscious among a mass of wires and tubes in a tiny cubicle. I curled my hand around his finger.

My nana looked pale and fragile. I was not used to seeing her like that.

"Papa knows you are here, my darling. See how relaxed he is? When the nurse comes in he tenses up and won't let them take any blood," said my nana.

Doctors and nurses swept past me. No one knew what the next few hours would bring. "Well, as far as we know he may wake up but he might only be able to speak Spanish. We are doing all we can," the doctors told us.

After finding out the severity of the stroke, the only thing I could hope for my grandfather was death. I don't know how many people would want to live like a vegetable, but I knew that he wasn't one of them. He loved to talk and carry on well into the night. I knew that if he survived this and was unable to communicate, it would be a fate worse than hell for him.

I went back to my grandparents' house to spend the night with my nana. I didn't want her to be alone so I set up camp in the living room and tried to let my mind comprehend everything that was happening. With my nana sound asleep, I sat down at the kitchen table and sobbed for hours. I had never cried like that in my life, and it scared me to feel the tears pour out of my eyes hour after hour. I didn't want to let him go. I wasn't ready yet. I still had all these things to accomplish and he needed to be there. He promised.

After his first stroke, my grandfather had signed a "Do Not Resuscitate" order, and had filed it with the hospital that he went to regularly for his checkups. As a united family and with the "Do Not Resuscitate" order in hand, we made the painful decision to unplug the respirator. No family comes to this kind of decision without it being heart-wrenching.

Unfortunately, when he had his stroke, time was of the essence and he was taken to the hospital closest to his house. At that time this particular hospital was owned by a religious institution, and we had to wade through a lot of red tape in order to fulfill my grandfather's wishes. All that I could ask myself was "What kind of life would he have if they were not going to let us do this for him?" Finally the sea of red tape parted and we were allowed to grant him what he wished.

With the help of his regular doctor, we were able to get all the machines turned off. "Papa" was given his last rights and my family gathered together around him. The whine of the respirator ceased. Machines were shut off and all the tubes and wires were removed from the room. He was still hooked up to a heart monitor so we would know when he was gone. I scanned the faces that surrounded me. I was not only feeling my own pain but the pain of the people around me. It radiated from them.

His heartbeat became stronger and for a moment I felt his invincibility. He was not going to die until he was damn good and ready. His heartbeat and vital signs stabilized and it seemed that he would survive a while longer.

We were finally able to get permission to transfer him out of that hospital and into his regular hospital with his doctor. I knew my grandfather was as strong as a horse. The man had beaten a severe case of E-coli some years ago and, apparently, this stroke was not going to take him down.

The day of his transfer, I sat with him most of the morning and afternoon. People came in and out of the room; family members and friends poured in and offered their support. Coming from a big Mexican family, I was used to the hugging. But I really would have preferred to be left alone. I knew everyone meant well but it just wasn't helping.

"I was not only feeling my own pain but the pain of the people around me. It radiated from them."

I finally decided that I needed to get out of there. I needed tothink about something other than what had been happening for the last three days. I decided to go visit a friend of mine and her new baby. Babies always have a way of making me feel better about things. I told my sister that I would meet everyone back at the house for dinner and another round at the hospital. I didn't know that was the last time I would see him alive. A short time after I left, he passed away. I don't know if he did it on purpose, or if it was just time for him to go. I know he didn't want me there. That was not the way he wanted me to remember him.

Giving the eulogy was the hardest thing I had ever done in my life. I am not good at public speaking. My grandpapa was the public speaker in my life. I get nervous and stumble over my words and generally make myself look foolish, but for some reason when I stood up in front of all those people all the fear drained away. I had stayed up almost the entire night before the funeral mulling over what I was going to say. I was not going to stop until it was perfect.

Words tumbled out of my mouth. They made sense and the impact he had on my life, and the emotions I felt, flowed strongly. I knew at that moment he was looking down on me with pride.

Unfortunately, the day after I watched my papa laid to rest, I was on a plane back to Arcata to try and finish out the semester. My parents thought that finishing out the semester would be best for me.

So back I came. No family or close friends to confide in. It felt like my heart had a huge gaping hole in it, but I came back. I went straight to the liquor store and bought a huge bottle of tequila. Needless to say, I wasn't on the honor roll that semester.

According to the Harvard School of Public Health, turning to alcohol to deal with problems is not uncommon among college students. In a 1999 survey of more than 14,000 students at 119 colleges in the nation, 23 percent were frequent binge drinkers. The survey defined frequent binge drinking as having four or more drinks in a row, three or more nights in a two week period.

Was I going to become another statistic?

I spent the summer at home. It was rather depressing with all the usual struggles after the head of the family passes away. I was determined to come back and make amends for the previous semester. I even attended a few sessions of grief counseling in the Health Center. It looked like I was well on my way to surviving this tragedy.

Once again, the phone rang.

"I am so sorry Jaime. I just heard and I knew I had to call you."

This time it was my sister's words that brought another crushing blow. A friend that I had known since junior high had died in an accident while camping. I don't know if it was the fact that I had just lost the most important person in my life a few months back, or that I was facing another death far away from friends and family, but it blew me away. All the grief counseling I had flew right out the window.

He was only 22. He had his whole life ahead of him. I felt horrible. I questioned why I was still here and why he wasn't. It just didn't seem fair. I had lost a friend from high school a few years back and it had made me emotionally and physically ill to be there at his funeral. I knew I couldn't attend this one. I sent his family a card, and once again, consoled myself with alcohol.

With the recent loss of my grandfather and now this friend of mine, I didn't feel sure about anything. I had managed to make some really great friends while at HSU, and they lent their shoulders and ears but they just didn't understand. I wanted someone to hold me until I fell asleep, or fill my thoughts with sarcastic humor; something, anything to keep my mind off what was happening. I wanted my mom. I wanted my dad. I even wanted my sister.

I would walk around in the quad near the Depot and watch people laugh and scream. Lives intermingling and conversations about where the party was that weekend filtered through the air and choked me. I wanted to build a giant catapult and launch all of their happy asses into the ocean. I was disgusted with their happiness. I hated every person who smiled. Most of all, I hated myself when I smiled.

I struggled with school. It saddened me to watch my GPA fall. I was a good student and I had never had to work at it. I had let some of my professors down, and most of them didn't know why. Part of me felt that they deserved to know what was going on, but the other half didn't feel like it was any of their business. I didn't want to be a student with an excuse.

I fought really hard that semester and struggled with most of my pain privately, hiding it from my friends and family. I acted like my usual smart-ass self but it was tearing me apart moment by moment. It began to surface in the strangest areas. One minute I would be watching TV and the next I was yowling like a newborn baby, in my room alone. Driving around with the radio blaring became the only way I could drown out the thoughts that claimed my brain. But then a sad song would come on and there I was, crying again. I even found myself spacing out when friends were talking, or snapping at them for the most unimportant things. I needed to do something about it. I couldn't go on like this. My friends and family back home worried about my mental health. I worried about my mental stability. Somewhere deep down inside lay my inner strength. It was just a matter of finding it.

I became an insomniac and tooled around with writing stories, but nothing would keep my mind off what I had yet to deal with. My phone bill began to soar. I was talking to my parents and friends back home every chance I got.

Then, a month later, the phone rang again. (Like I said, bad news has a distinct ring.)

I didn't want to know. I didn't want to hear what was being said on the other end of the line. It was my sister again and this time it was a friend of hers that had passed away. I was left with mixed emotions. I felt my sister's pain. I knew what it meant and the impact it was going to make on her. I had been there myself. As I counseled her through the phone call, I felt a sense of relief. My sister and I were on the same wavelength. For the first time in a while I felt the corners of my mouth tilt up. I was smiling, and I didn't hate myself for it.

It hadn't been long since I had lost my friend and it was still a sore spot for me, but talking to my sister, I found myself telling her the same things people had said to me about loss. "You'll get through this, Time heals all, it was just their time." And my personal favorite, "Life goes on." I sounded like an idiot but what else do you say? I began to understand what my friends were feeling. They didn't know what to say and they were trying their hardest to find that right thing.

Throughout the entire ordeal I felt like I was being forced to get over it. I was the black cloud that hung over every party. I felt like I was walking around with a bright blue neon sign that read: "Don't talk to me. I'm in a lot of emotional pain and I just might rip your head off. So, move along. Nothing more to see here."

My friends had shown me immeasurable patience and understanding. All I know is that I have a wonderful and supportive family. I don't always like them but they are mine. I don't think I would have made it without my family back home and my HSU family. I am still not completely over it. The grief comes in waves and I have my good days and my bad days. The good days have started to outnumber the bad days. I used to think that my life was over, but it's just beginning and I have a whole lot of living to do. Not just for me, but for all the people I had to let go. There is a lot of stuff going on in the world that we don't even know about, and I don't know about you but I'm ready for it.

As for academics, I'm doing ok. With the extraordinary help of a very capable advisor, I'll be graduating soon. I don't recommend that anyone use alcohol to cover up something. That is alcohol abuse. The problem is still going to be there in the morning; you'll just end up with a headache on top of it.

I want people to know that life can throw some really huge boulders but it is possible to survive.