- Feb 5, 2002
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I grabbed my keys and rushed over. Time stood still. My dad called moments after I finished recording a podcast to tell me my grandfather had fallen. He’d landed between the toilet and the vanity, his neck and back at an awkward angle.
But he was awake when we found him, conscious. We could talk to him. My father covered him with a towel, so as he waited outside for the ambulance, I crouched beside my Papa Gus and reached for his hand.
What do you say to the toughest guy you know? A stubborn Puerto Rican-born, Broolyn-raised Air Force veteran who went from the military to an electrical engineering career to crumpled on the ground before you.
Courtesy photos
I knew he was scared. I knew he was uncomfortable. He needed to know he wasn’t alone. I needed him to know that we had the time to say what needed to be said.
“Papa, can you hear me? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. I just want to go home.”
“You are home, Papa. How did you fall?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I got dizzy. I need a haircut. Can you take me to get a haircut, Katie?”
He knew who I was. I hadn’t told him it was me, and I didn’t think he could see me fully with where his head was tucked. But he heard my voice.
“I love you, Papa. We’ll get you a haircut soon. Are you okay? Does anything hurt?”
“I need my ladder. I left my ladder out. I was on my ladder. I’m getting dizzy. I need to go see your grandmother, where is she? I love you, you know?”
Our conversation continued broken bits of sentences here and there, with many “I love yous” from the both of us, as he asked about all his people. He wanted to know where his grandsons were. He asked about my daughters, his great-granddaughters, whom he fondly called “my girls.” He knew he’d just spoken to my postulant sister on the phone the previous Saturday. He knew his son and daughter were on the way. And he wanted to see Libby, my grandmother who passed away in 2020.
We sat there on that bathroom floor for what couldn’t have been longer than 10 minutes. It felt like an eternity, though, as holy moments often do. Time stood still, and I just held his hand, and we talked. The bathroom floor, between the toilet and the vanity, seems like an odd place to encounter the Lord, but there he was, comforting us both as we knew, deep down, what was to come.
Jesus was there in the physical suffering of my Papa Gus, his legs and arms twisted, his heart already beginning to beat too fast as he had crashed into the tile floor. He was there as I knelt beside him, keeping vigil beside his growing cold body, trying to keep him talking and conscious long enough for the EMTs to assess him properly. He was there as we said “I love you” a dozen times in just a few moments, the phrase put at the end of every sentence of the idle chit-chat to try and keep him awake.
We said nothing that was all that important, but we said what needed to be said. Papa Gus knew I was there. He knew he was loved. And we both felt Jesus there, on the cold tile of that bathroom floor.
The EMTs arrived, and he squeezed my hand as they entered the room.
“Go get me my rosary, Katie Bug. And don’t let them take off my rings. Let me keep my wedding ring.”
“Yes, sir. I love you, Papa. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I rushed to grab the rosary on the end table next to his easy chair. I teared up. He hadn’t called me “Katie Bug” in years. Not since I was a kid. Maybe I still was one to him. I didn’t mind. Maybe he was in a different time in his head when I was just a seven-year-old girl waiting for him to come home from summer days at work so we could go fishing out at the camp. I could be there too if that’s the time he was in. I handed him the rosary as they brought him to the ambulance, squeezed his hand, and told him I loved him once more. He said it back with a gargle in his throat.
It’s the last thing he’d ever say to me.
Continued below.
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But he was awake when we found him, conscious. We could talk to him. My father covered him with a towel, so as he waited outside for the ambulance, I crouched beside my Papa Gus and reached for his hand.
What do you say to the toughest guy you know? A stubborn Puerto Rican-born, Broolyn-raised Air Force veteran who went from the military to an electrical engineering career to crumpled on the ground before you.
I knew he was scared. I knew he was uncomfortable. He needed to know he wasn’t alone. I needed him to know that we had the time to say what needed to be said.
“Papa, can you hear me? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. I just want to go home.”
“You are home, Papa. How did you fall?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I got dizzy. I need a haircut. Can you take me to get a haircut, Katie?”
He knew who I was. I hadn’t told him it was me, and I didn’t think he could see me fully with where his head was tucked. But he heard my voice.
“I love you, Papa. We’ll get you a haircut soon. Are you okay? Does anything hurt?”
“I need my ladder. I left my ladder out. I was on my ladder. I’m getting dizzy. I need to go see your grandmother, where is she? I love you, you know?”
Our conversation continued broken bits of sentences here and there, with many “I love yous” from the both of us, as he asked about all his people. He wanted to know where his grandsons were. He asked about my daughters, his great-granddaughters, whom he fondly called “my girls.” He knew he’d just spoken to my postulant sister on the phone the previous Saturday. He knew his son and daughter were on the way. And he wanted to see Libby, my grandmother who passed away in 2020.
We sat there on that bathroom floor for what couldn’t have been longer than 10 minutes. It felt like an eternity, though, as holy moments often do. Time stood still, and I just held his hand, and we talked. The bathroom floor, between the toilet and the vanity, seems like an odd place to encounter the Lord, but there he was, comforting us both as we knew, deep down, what was to come.
Jesus was there in the physical suffering of my Papa Gus, his legs and arms twisted, his heart already beginning to beat too fast as he had crashed into the tile floor. He was there as I knelt beside him, keeping vigil beside his growing cold body, trying to keep him talking and conscious long enough for the EMTs to assess him properly. He was there as we said “I love you” a dozen times in just a few moments, the phrase put at the end of every sentence of the idle chit-chat to try and keep him awake.
We said nothing that was all that important, but we said what needed to be said. Papa Gus knew I was there. He knew he was loved. And we both felt Jesus there, on the cold tile of that bathroom floor.
The EMTs arrived, and he squeezed my hand as they entered the room.
“Go get me my rosary, Katie Bug. And don’t let them take off my rings. Let me keep my wedding ring.”
“Yes, sir. I love you, Papa. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I rushed to grab the rosary on the end table next to his easy chair. I teared up. He hadn’t called me “Katie Bug” in years. Not since I was a kid. Maybe I still was one to him. I didn’t mind. Maybe he was in a different time in his head when I was just a seven-year-old girl waiting for him to come home from summer days at work so we could go fishing out at the camp. I could be there too if that’s the time he was in. I handed him the rosary as they brought him to the ambulance, squeezed his hand, and told him I loved him once more. He said it back with a gargle in his throat.
It’s the last thing he’d ever say to me.
Taking time to say goodbye
Continued below.
The astonishing way I prayed holding my dying grandfather's hand
I did not know that time would, so I could gently walk with him to those final moments of his earthly life. But Jesus, in the holiest week of the year, gave us a holy day where time was spent, slowly, walking my grandfather up the ladder, to get home and go get a haircut.
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