Jennifer Cuevas

Journalism Fall 2000

-----No Doubt, "Don’t Speak"

My sisters and I had just gotten back to Pearsall from a day trip to San Antonio and gone to pick up a pizza from a local restaurant. When we returned home, the first thing we saw was my dad hang up the phone with a solemn look on his face. "Your aunt just called…she said we should go to the hospital immediately," he said while looking at the ceiling. "Your grandmother is getting worse."

As we drove down the windy road to the hospital, the town’s bright lights blinded me as I heard the tunes of a song in the background. That morning I bought a new CD, and the song, "Don’t Speak", was playing for about the tenth time that day. When we got to the hospital parking lot, I quickly jumped out of the back seat of the car and saw my cousin from afar. He walked slowly down the sidewalk with tears streaming down his face. As I passed him, the still, gloomy air filled my lungs. He didn’t have to speak, for I knew what had happened.

My body felt weightless as I rushed down the hospital hallway in my bellbottom pants and long-sleeved flowered shirt, running as fast as my legs could carry me. I walked inside the ivory tiled room and the first person my eyes met was my mom. I rushed over to her. Everyone was there; my sisters and I were the last ones to arrive. I slowly dragged my feet to the side of the bed and my mother asked me to take my grandmother’s discolored hand and to give her a kiss. I took her fragile hand with rose-colored nails that gleamed in the light and softly pressed my dry lips against it. Her hand was still warm. Those same hands that used to bake cookies and pies for me when I needed comfort. My hand held her hand tight as the warmth slowly turned cold. It was then that I realized my mother had lost her mom. My grandmother was dead.

* * *

I grew up in Pearsall, Texas, living in the same house on 138 West Davila. Surrounded by a park, the police department, and my neighbors, we always something to observe. Amidst the chaos, one thing I enjoyed about living in this house was that my grandmother lived right next door to my family.

When I came home from school exhausted, barely able to walk up the steps because of the big backpack on my back, my grandmother would give me a wave from her house. My room faced her kitchen door and at night sometimes when I had my shade open I would see her and would wave one final time before bed. Without having to say a word, I knew that we were both happy to see each other.

Sometimes my grandmother would call us to come over to pick up a freshly baked good that she spoiled us with. I would take the round, brick steps that led from our front door to her side door, skipping and hopping over each one. I would open the door and there was always a sweet smell of fresh apple pie, cookies, or warm, hot tortillas stacked on a plate.

On Saturday nights she liked to watch her favorite shows and I would go over just to sit next to her and watch TV, even though I didn’t understand a word of Spanish at the time. We would share a chocolate candy bar or any other sweet snack she had in her secret stash that was located in a plastic baggy on the corner of her couch. Our visits sometimes required no speaking; just being in each other’s presence would make the both of us happy.

* * *

The death of my grandmother was not spontaneous. I lost my grandmother, emotionally, several months before. My senior year, which was supposed to be one of my happiest, joyful and stress-free years, turned into one of grief and sadness. My grandmother, who was 74 when she died, smoked since the age of 14. All those years of what she thought was pleasure, in turn would cause her much pain and suffering years later.

My nights and weekends from July through that December of 1996 were spent in the hospital and nursing home, visiting and taking care of my grandmother. For the last two months she was alive, it was like she was already dead. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t walk, all she did was lie in bed and mumble words we couldn’t even make out. My grandmother’s prolonged death came as no surprise, because we knew she was strong and would fight this to the end.

In December, we knew that the end was near. She was getting worse and the dialysis treatment she had every other day made her weaker and caused much pain every time a needle was inserted or the medicine took its effect.

I remember the last conversation I had with her. For several weeks, I hadn’t heard her voice or thoughts expressed so clearly as they were that day. Christmas time arrived and my older sister and I went to visit her that morning. Jess had to step out for a minute to go call a nurse, and I was left alone in the dark, quiet room with my grandmother. The only sounds were the exhalations of her breath and the faint screaming and moans coming from surrounding rooms. I had just finished giving her some red cough syrup, which dripped down the side of her mouth. As I leaned over to wipe it, I looked at her and said, "Hi, do you know who I am? It’s me Jenny." She turned her head slowly to the right where I was standing. With her eyes half open, she looked over at me and mumbled, "Oh, hi Jenny, how are you?" She had the happiest smile I had ever seen her with throughout all those months she was in the hospital.

Tears formed at the corner of my eyes and they began rolling down. I couldn’t figure out if she really knew who I was or if I was just a stranger to her. That was the last time I heard her rough and cheery voice. Three days later, I found myself in that same hospital room, standing in that same place, but only this time I was saying goodbye.

The atmosphere of the hospital room that night was eerie, but at the same time, it was peaceful and painless. Even though I was sad, when I looked at her body, with her eyes closed and her head rested back, I could only imagine that she was in a better place. Peaceful. No one spoke; the only emotions or noises were those of people crying. The looks from everyone surrounding the bed were enough to send an aura of comfort and peace to everyone who was there.

* * *

The funeral was held on a cold and bitter morning. At the church, before the service, I walked up to the casket to see my grandmother one last time. Only, when I got there, it wasn’t her. It was her body, but only under the lacy, lilac, pearl dress and the plastered makeup and red colored lips could I see the true her. I wanted to reach in and give her a hug. I wanted to turn back time and be in those days where we’d sit and visit outside or on her couch. I wanted to make up for lost time. Then I realized those days could only become reality through my memories.

At the cemetery we gathered around the casket to say our last goodbyes. I remember standing aside, observing everyone pass by the rose-colored casket. Beneath the black sunglasses I wore to hide my sad eyes, I remember seeing Brian, who is my boyfriend now, lean over and kiss my grandmother’s casket. Right then, I knew that, without saying a word, everyone’s emotions spoke in different ways that day.

* * *

It’s hard to think about someone after they die. It’s hard to remember the times you spent together and picture what they looked like. Most of the time, the only memories I have of her are from the many months she spent in the hospital. I think of her making funny jokes from hallucinations she had that day. I think of her with tubes running down her body from the many treatments she had to take.

Sometimes I wake up at night and find myself crying. I often dream about my grandmother and me, talking or visiting, with her voice so clear and our laughter so comforting. Only when I wake up, I remember she is dead. Every time I hear that song by "No Doubt" I am taken back to that day when my grandmother died. However, it is only recently that this song has special meaning to me and I no longer feel sadness. It reminds me of the days we used to spend together and the fun times we had.

As I look back, for me it is an experience of personal growth and understanding, a realization about life and death. I think we get too caught up in the words people say and we don’t realize that when someone doesn’t talk or express things fully, their emotions can show just as much as words can. The words and the meaning of the song "Don’t Speak", make sense to me now more than ever. All those times my grandmother and I just sat together in moments of silence, will always be cherished. Just being in another person’s presence without words or speech can be enough to understand them in many ways.

When we first received the assignment to write the personal narrative I was unsure of what I wanted to write about. The death of my grandmother was something that has affected me greatly and I wanted to capture the experience through this article.

It was very emotional to write, but at the same time, I remembered the day so vividly that the story was easy to express through my writing.

Everyone has experienced a death, whether through a family member or close friend, and I thought people could relate to this story. Every time I heard the song "Don’t Speak" after my grandmother died, I got very emotional and it took me back to that day. I decided to include it in the paper, not knowing what impact it would have. When I finished the article, I noticed it had developed a theme throughout the paper.

The writing process that we went through this semester has helped each one of us strengthen and develop our writing style. In each article I wrote, I was able to apply the concepts and writing techniques we read and studied about in class. The interviews we had to do for the papers we very interesting and fun. Not only did we get to see what Journalists go through to get their stories, we got to participate in the experience and learn from each one.

I wanted to revise my first paper, because I felt it was the one that best represented my writing. It was interesting to go back three months later and read the article again. I was then able to make corrections that made my piece a representation of what I had learned this semester.