June 4, 2010 § 1 Comment
is the date of the first, and only time, that I’ve ever seen someone die. It wasn’t gruesome, nor sad. I’d say it was beautiful. I held his hand, and I wouldn’t say he held my hand back. He was in too much pain to be connected to his mind to realize my hand was gripping his, trying to keep him here a minute longer. This was in the hospital. He didn’t want to go home, he knew it was this day that he must leave us.
Probably one of the most emotional moments of my life was witnessing him inform my father and grandmother that he loved all of us so much, but he knew it was his time to die. Hearing my grandfather, of all people, say such a thing really surprised me. Afterall, he was the most strongest (and stubborn) man I have ever met, next to my dad of course. Like father, like son. I wanted to smile for his strength, but seeing my grandmother’s eyes filled with pain and misery made it unbearable.
I had to leave the room and cry in peace.
I will never forget Robert Lawrence Ferguson’s last moment of life. I will never forget the fragile shell of a body that he left behind. I will never forget sitting in the hospital hallway crying with my sisters and cousins in awe as his children stood around him. I will never forget that drive home that night leaving behind part of my past… the familiar feeling of emptiness in your heart.
He used to call me Sweet Pea. My mother followed his suit. I never realized how amazing that nickname was. Sweet peas symbolize delicate pleasure. I was delicate to him when I was a young pea and before he was emaciated with disease. In his final moments, he was my sweet pea.