He's Dying.
My grandfather is dying. He's in the hospital right now, and I came back from the most horrible trip I've ever taken.
He went to get his heart valve opened, so that there was a chance of maybe a year or two of him living. But the calcium deposits were so built up around his heart, that the surgeon couldn't do anything. I saw him afterwards, he was tied to every support system you could imagine, he could barely talk, and he couldn't lift his fork to eat for himself.
I've never felt sadder or more outcast in my entire life. My dad's side of the family is all Cuban, so they only speak Spanish. They'd greet me with, "Ay, galinda, chicadica, your so beautiful." and never talk to me again until they left. I was alone on that trip. To make matters worse, my aunt is completely into her religion and threw Catholic bullshit in my face throughout the entire trip. Giving me a rosary, and blessed things, and telling me to go to church with her when I didn't say I wanted to go. Like it wasn't my decision. My decision was left in the hands of people I barely knew, and my grandfather was in the next room suffering.
The best things that happened was my ability to talk to Alexander every night and text him everyday while I was there, eating as much Cuban food as possible, and seeing South Miami Beach on Ocean Drive. That's all. I was physically abused by my cousin, mentally aboused by my family members asking me why I wear black clothes and that they were ugly, my cousin telling me I was ugly- that my hair was ugly, that my shoes were ugly, that I was a boy underneath. The 14 hours to Miami and the 15 hours back in a cramped car. And still, my grandfather, as much as my naive aunt prays, is still going to die. I cried only once after I said goodbye to him. But I couldn't really cry. Not in front of those people. They won't ever see me weak or upset. And if my gradfather dies, they'll never see me again.
He went to get his heart valve opened, so that there was a chance of maybe a year or two of him living. But the calcium deposits were so built up around his heart, that the surgeon couldn't do anything. I saw him afterwards, he was tied to every support system you could imagine, he could barely talk, and he couldn't lift his fork to eat for himself.
I've never felt sadder or more outcast in my entire life. My dad's side of the family is all Cuban, so they only speak Spanish. They'd greet me with, "Ay, galinda, chicadica, your so beautiful." and never talk to me again until they left. I was alone on that trip. To make matters worse, my aunt is completely into her religion and threw Catholic bullshit in my face throughout the entire trip. Giving me a rosary, and blessed things, and telling me to go to church with her when I didn't say I wanted to go. Like it wasn't my decision. My decision was left in the hands of people I barely knew, and my grandfather was in the next room suffering.
The best things that happened was my ability to talk to Alexander every night and text him everyday while I was there, eating as much Cuban food as possible, and seeing South Miami Beach on Ocean Drive. That's all. I was physically abused by my cousin, mentally aboused by my family members asking me why I wear black clothes and that they were ugly, my cousin telling me I was ugly- that my hair was ugly, that my shoes were ugly, that I was a boy underneath. The 14 hours to Miami and the 15 hours back in a cramped car. And still, my grandfather, as much as my naive aunt prays, is still going to die. I cried only once after I said goodbye to him. But I couldn't really cry. Not in front of those people. They won't ever see me weak or upset. And if my gradfather dies, they'll never see me again.