Marcela Shine

"It all went by so quick." Those were some of the last words my grandpa spoke on the day he died. My fondest memories of him were the mornings I'd wake up as a kid. The loud whir of the coffee grinder. The smell of toasted brown beans. I'd walk down the creaky stairs to my grandpa sippin' his coffee, listening to the static-sounding radio. This memory turned coffee into my liquid nostalgia. The day of my grandpa’s death didn’t feel much different than any other. It was December 22nd, 2021. I made my way to the kitchen to find him listening to that piece of shit 30-year-old radio while nonchalantly sipping his black coffee. He knew an hour from now he’d be dead. Our family knew for the past 6 months that his time was up when he was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. My grandpa was the classic macho man, but he was terrified of suffering a painful death. Hooked up to ventilators to keep a shell of his former self alive. He wanted to go out on his terms. So he opted in for medical assisted suicide. And today was the day. Each minute that ticked by during the last hour felt like a rising crescendo to the final scene of a movie. When the nurse arrived to deliver the fatal injection, we all gathered in the living room. The sun beamed in and lit up the room. My grandpa sat next to my grandma on one couch. My brother, his girlfriend, and I sat on the coach across from them. The nurse hooked up the tubes in my grandpa’s arm. My grandma and brother were in tears. And there he was, the tough son of a bitch was sipping his black coffee with a stern face. Truthfully, up to that point, I hadn’t felt much either. Like with my mother’s death, I was numb. I didn’t know how to feel. And I felt guilty for it. But as the nurse began the injection and I saw the liquid slowly make it’s way to my grandpa’s arm, it all became real to me. We said our goodbyes to him and told him we loved him. A tear ran down as he slowly closed his eyes in preparation. The nurse gently began counting down from 5. “5…” Like a pot of boiling water, I felt my emotions bubble up to the surface. “4…” I watched the man who took me in when I was 13 because my mom began using drugs. “3…” The man who viewed me as his son. “2…” I broke down into tears. “1.” The clear fluid slowly seeped into his arm. I watched as the life left his body. Just 5 minutes ago he was talking to us and drinking his coffee. Now? Gone. For the following weeks, I tried processing what happened. I had dealt with death before, but watching someone die before your eyes changes you. It shows you how delicate life is. One minute your here, the next you’re gone. Nothing represented this better than what my grandpa told my brother on the morning of his death. My brother asked my grandpa what he thought of life. “It all went by so quick…” he said in a reminiscent tone. I’ll never forget those words. I keep it in the back of my head at all times. It’s all to common for us to put off the life we want for another tomorrow. “One day I’ll start that business.” “One day I’ll start working out.” “One day I’ll take that trip.” But eventually, we run out of tomorrows. Getting to the end of my life with regrets scares the shit outta me. If I can leave you with one takeaway today, it’s to remind yourself that you will cease to exist one day. But not in some doom and gloom type of way. In a way that keeps you present. To remind you your failures aren’t a big deal and your time on here is precious. Most people grow up, works jobs they don’t like, marry people who are “good enough”, and settle for average. F%*k that. You’re meant for more. Take more tactical risks and pursue a great life.