is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
The business of dying
Monday, December 6, 2010 My grandmother is dying. It is not a surprise. She is 102-years old. Her brain has been consumed by Alzheimer's for more years than Lil E has been alive and now, her body is catching up. We've rushed to be by her side six or more times in the last few years, convinced the hour would soon arrive. Somehow, her body miraculously recovered, and days later, she'd be smiling at one of us or patiently waiting for a nurse to feed her spoonfuls of ice cream for dinner.
It has been exhausting and still, a gift to sit by her side, noting how the wrinkles have seemed to fade on her still-rosy pale skin, in awe of the black streaks that have made their way through her silver hair, silently praying thanks to have her one more day.
The day is coming. The hour will soon arrive.
Her heartbeat is slowing. She has refused more than a sip or two of juice for four days. Her breathing is shallow. She has slipped into unconsciousness. Grandma Alice is finally, mercifully dying.
My mother is with her, conscientous and whispering to her mother that it is ok to let go, that we love her, that we understand. She sang all of the songs my grandmother has loved for a century -- without asking I know that The Old Rugged Cross and Let Me Call You Sweetheart were among them. She filed her nailes, smoothed lotion on my grandmother's hands, prayed.
Now, we are waiting. On the phone last night, my mother and I went over the plans made and paid for years ago for my grandmother's funeral. She wanted pink roses. My mother asked if I thought adding pink poinsettias would be nice too. I do.
She told me stories she wanted to include in my grandmother's obituary. She asked aloud how much it costs to have a long one in two papers and then said, "Never mind, it doesn't matter how much it costs really."
I've composed other posts, the ones about Thanksgiving and other things, but the one about Grandma Alice has been in the way. I've put off making plans. I've worried myself with unimportant logistics, like whether we will make Lil E's winter assembly performance on Friday and if I need my oil changed.
I almost cried when I imagined mother's and grandmother's hands entwined, thinking I would never put lotion on her hands myself again, never brush her hair or place my head on her shoulder, just as I did as a little girl and even when I had to lean over the rails on her hospital bed.
I've almost cried several more times, talking to Lil E about the plans, the details, what may happen over the course of this week. Instead, I've breathed in and answered a thousand questions that make me understand how big this moment is for all of us -- Is it true you can die in your sleep? Is your spirit invisible as it lifts from your body? What do you imagine heaven to be? What if you die with your eyes closed? Can we bring flowers to the cemetary? Can we take cookies to the party after the funeral? Will I miss School Spirit Week? What does it feel like when you die?
Other people have died in the time Lil E has been on this earth, but none that he remembers. And he will remember this. Even in this waiting, we are teaching this child about what it means to die and how it is to grieve. I am centered and still and calm in that. Those moments do not bring tears.
I brought up suitcases, made a list of things to bring, packed up snacks and toys and reminded myself to take the framed photos of Grandma Alice and me off of my wall for the display at the funeral. Still, I did not cry.
But today, when I jumped off the treadmill, realizing I had a doctor's appointment in far less time than it takes to drive there, and, on rushing there, was called by another doctor to see why I wasn't there for a different appointment downtown...I felt flustered and angry at myself for flubbing appointments and screwing up my schedule and having to speed across the city in sweaty running clothes. That's when I cried.
I apologized to the second doctor, promised to reschedule, apologized again. And then the tears. Just tears of sadness, all bottled up under the reserve of waiting until the time.
But the time, at least for crying, is now, as we wait. I've rationalized that my grandmother's death will one day be a blessing because she'd be so mad she was still alive, she'd be so prayerful that younger people's lives have been lost while her own soldiered on, that she has had so many years and these last have not been lucid. I've neutralized because the ups and downs of nursing home emergency calls have taken their toll and because I made peace six years ago with losing the grandmother I knew.
Still, it's painful to pull away completely. Time is ticking. The hands are pulling closer together and I am just so sad.
Looking back on my grandma's life:
Reader Comments (6)