S456 ARCHIVES: Rest in Peace, Linda Petras: 1941 - 2010

posted originally on station456.blogspot.com on August 9th, 2011

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Whenever I have a writing assignment I have to do for school, I take it rather seriously and usually quite enjoy it: Even if it's for a class like Swimming, where the teacher obviously is not going to have high standards or expectations for the pieces that she/he receives. I love writing. So, when I got my first essay assigned to me in my Honors English 9 class, I took it very seriously. I poured my soul into it, really.

We had to write an Autobiographical Narrative Piece on a big event in our lives. Something substantial: Something incredibly uplifting, depressing, intellectually stimulating, etc. Now, from what I observed, my classmates tended to pick things like a vacation they went on, or getting a pet they really loved, or something of that nature. I was a bit different with my subject matter.

I wrote about the death of my grandmother, and I'm sharing that piece with you today. Today is the one year anniversary of her death.

Please remember that this was a school project. It's all true, with the exception of most of the dialogue being paraphrased.

I love you Grandma.

The Death of my Grandmother

by Matthew Petras

Many people have one, solidified, unforgettable moment of their current time on Earth that stands out, and teaches them a great deal about this crazy thing we cal[l] life. My moment was the death of my grandmother, Linda Petras. Before her death I understood the general outline of one's life: You're born, you live your life, you die, and then the rest is up for debate. Death is the most important occurrence that has been proven to happen to every one of us, and, even though beliefs on an "after life" differ greatly among us all, we all want to be ready for death. Thoroughly experiencing the death of a loved one is both the simplest method to wrap your head around death and the hardest to endure. My grandmother's passing was the first death that I was old enough to completely understand.

It all started when my grandmother was diagnosed with Lung Cancer [I think I was incorrect in saying that it was Lung Cancer, but it was certainly Cancer of some kind] back in 2004 [this date may also be incorrect, but it was around then]. The family was dumbfounded and obviously worried, but we were also optimistic. Linda herself might've been the most optimistic of us all, fighting cancer for four to five years, all the while traveling the world and obtaining things that she wanted but never got.

"Italy was gorgeous," she once said. "The food was scrumptious, the water-filled city was wonderfully interesting, and the architecture and art museums were jaw-dropping."

"You just have to watch out for pick-pocketers. One person stole my camera, presented it to me saying he found it, and asked for a reward!" her husband Larry exclaimed with a chuckle.

They had a magnificent time at Italy, along with other equally entertaining vacation spots all over the globe. She always though of her grandchildren, constantly bringing them back souvenirs and inviting them along with her on her trips with her husband. Despite all of the joy she was having, she loathed being sick. Relentless streams of bothersome medication and treatment frustrated and tired her. She bested many close calls, but eventually in 2010 she was done: She was ready to die.

I was horrified when I thought about what must've been going through her mind, that it was time for her to leave the world, leave everything she ever knew. I'd never had those thoughts before and I quite frankly didn't want to; it was all considerably frightening. Eventually my family and I visited her in a hospital in Pittsburg[h], and what a horrific place that hospital was. It was packed with cheery, young nurses and smiley doctors, but the contrast between the way they acted and the reality of the location was vast. The hospital was cold, silent, and had no distinct smell to speak of - it was unworldly clean. It was nothingness filled with dying people. There's nothing cheery about that.

She looked truly grim, could barely function, and hated the hospital she was in. She yearned to be back in Mon Valley Hospital, the place where she worked for the majority of her life. MVH was close to home, near friends, and she had befriended a great bit of the staff. She was, fortunately, transferred to this hospital, and, unfortunately, that hospital was the last place she ever was.

It all ended for her on one dreadful, depressing, and seemingly eternal night. I was there, along with my grandfather, my sister Rachel, my mother Janet, my father Eric, and my Aunt Laura. She had a lovely room, complete with numerous comfortable chairs and a window with a delightful view of the trees outside of the hospital. Food was provided by the staff, including several moist, soft muffins, awkward tasting cranberry juice, sweet apple juice, and steaming, dark coffee. She felt at home at this hospital and was probably content (at least as content someone in her condition can be), but I don't think anyone else was. To everyone else the hospital was just as bleak, empty, and as dreadful as the last.

This night we had a feeling she was going to pass away, and some couldn't stay in the room due to the sorrowful nature of it all. I stayed in the room the entire time with my aunt, father, and grandfather, enduring every struggled breath of my grandmother and nagging BEEP of the machines in the room. We just sat there and waited, waited for what we all knew was happening. At on point, she stopped breathing.

"I think that's it," my aunt said, succumbing to a stream of tears.

"Goodbye Linda, you lived a good life," my grandfather said, in a calm, but painful tone.

And that was it. Somebody I knew for as long as I can remember was gone, having left the world in front of my very own eyes. We left the room, and many members of the family were called to take a look at a woman they exponentially loved.

"Her suffering is over," my father said to the family, solidifying and establishing a positive look at her death.

After that, the typical funerals, ceremonies, and masses took place. All I was left with was memories, and thoughts. What happened to her after that night, where is she, is she anywhere? Nobody can answer these questions, and no other occurrence made me ponder such questions as much. This experience, while difficult to get through, made me think about the most important and guaranteed thing in life: Death. I was an altered person, the person you'd see in front of you today.