Divisions and Precisions

In My Grandma's House

My grandma's house is so quiet at night. You can hear the sounds of three people breathing in their sleep, even back in the far bedroom -- which really isn't that far away. Grandma has an electric clock hanging on her living room wall that's older than I am. My mom and dad gave it to her as a present not long after they got married. At two in the morning, that clock is the loudest thing in the house, burring quietly away, ticking back and forth.

I've known that my grandma is dying for a little over a week now. After she broke her hip in June, she just gave up. She has been active and on her own for 93 years. She planted a garden in her backyard this year, just like she has every year that I can remember. I think deep down she couldn't stand the thought of not being able to do that anymore, and having to go live with my aunt Vera. Or in a nursing home. So she pretty much stopped eating or drinking. Last Wednesday, when I came over to stay, I could see it in her face. She was getting ready to go.

I came over here to Grandma's on Saturday morning to take over for my mom, so she could get some rest and get some work done at home. When I got here, I found out that my grandma had stopped breathing during the night, and that her heart stopped. My mom was with her then. She went to go wake up Vera, and by the time they got into the living room, where Grandma is staying, Grandma's heart and breathing had started again.

So on Saturday, when I came over, all of us (my mom, my aunts Vera, Hazel, Helen, and me) tried to figure out what we needed to do. We knew Grandma couldn't go back to the hospital -- she'd just gotten out a few days before, and there's nothing they can do for her. Vera called the preacher from her and Grandma's church, and they called a nurse friend of ours as well. The nurse, Diana, was honest with us. A couple of days, maybe weeks, but not likely that long. She suggested that if anyone needed to come see Grandma, that we call them. So we did. We got in touch with hospice care, and Mom and Vera went to the funeral home and prearranged as much as they could. Then we settled in to wait.

Saturday went into Sunday, and on Sunday morning my mom and I both went home to rest and to get laundry done. We both were exhausted and slept nearly all day. At nine o'clock that night, Hazel called. My mom came into my room and said, "It's bad. We have to go." I drove us back over to Grandma's. When we walked in the door, I thought she was already gone. Vera was standing over her, taking her blood pressure, and Grandma was barely conscious. I sat next to her bed and held her hand. Everyone looked shell-shocked, me included. She was dying right before our eyes, and it was hard to let her go. While I sat there, my mom said, "Tell her it's okay, that's it all right for her to go. That we love her." She started to say more, but couldn't because she was crying.

That was one of the hardest things I've ever done. How do you tell someone you love that it's okay for them to die? I don't remember exactly what I said, but I told her. I told her that we loved her, and that we were going to stay with her, but that if she needed to go, to go, and that we would be okay. I swear, I saw relief in her eyes, and she cried a little -- not much, she's too dehydrated for tears. She nodded at me and squeezed my hand. One by one, throughout the night, we each sort of said goodbye. Vera, who's been taking care of her the longest, had the hardest time.

Sunday night was hellish. Grandma was restless and in pain, and there was nothing we could do. None of her medication worked. She kept saying, "I'm going to die, I'm not going to make it." And there was nothing for us to do except hold her hand and tell her that we were there. Everyone went to bed, finally around 1 am, except for my aunt Hazel and me. We took turns sitting next to Grandma's bed. At one point, she looked up at me and said, "Are you here by yourself?" I told her no, that all of her daughters were there. I finally went to bed at 5 am, when the others got up.

I spent a good part of today at home, sleeping and resting and packing -- and trying to figure out what I want to do. I don't want to go back to work until this is over, but that's a subject for another entry. When I got over here, the hospice nurse was here, getting all the arrangements made for Grandma to receive hospice care. It's not too different from the home care she was getting before, except that now the goal, rather than to make her well, is to make her comfortable and happy. All of her medication is now geared towards keeping her comfortable. That change is enormous.

My mom has yelled at me for not crying, not because I 'should', but because she's worried that I haven't cried in front of her. If either of us learned anything when my dad died, it was how important it is to let it all out. I haven't needed to cry, much. I cried talking to Brand the other night, when I first accepted that Grandma is in her last days. When I'm talking to her though, or with my family, the only thing that's important to me is that she feels good, and that she knows we're with her during this.

Death is so foreign to us in our culture. Back in my grandma's days, people died at home, surrounded by their family. Now we die in hospitals. We're distanced from it, in many ways like we're distanced from childbirth as well. The link between the two has been on my mind a lot the last couple days. Not four months ago I watched a life come into this world. I can't help thinking that now I'm watching one leave. Ironically, Mary, the hospice nurse, said something similar today. She says she thinks of herself as a sort of maternity nurse, only instead of bringing life in, she helps it leave. There's a rhythm to it, just like there is with childbirth.

This morning when I got up, my grandma was sitting up in bed, drinking coffee. She was awake and alert, like the pale, cold woman living from breath to breath the night before hadn't existed. It was jarring, to say the least. She's been alert all day, getting visitors and smiling at everyone. I sat next to her and held her hand while Mary was here, and I kept looking down to see her just smiling at me. Her eyes were sort of misted over, like she was far away. I asked what she was thinking, and she said nothing, but I think I know. I think she was remembering me as a little girl, and how I used to always come to see her when we lived down the street from her. I've spent so many hours in this house. I stood tonight in what used to be my grandma's bedroom, and remembered how I used to sleep with her in her big bed when I would stay the night. She'd always ask me what I wanted for breakfast the next morning. I'd almost always say pancakes, because my grandma made the best pancakes in the world.

Other nights, me and my cousin Sheri would spend the night over here. We'd stay up late in the kitchen, making macaroni and cheese and giggling over boys and whatever else -- we were probably about 12 and 15 at the time -- but then the next morning it was always the same, Grandma cooking breakfast for us. She never complained too much about us keeping her up at night, no matter how long and loud we giggled.

There was a time when I was younger, when we would have Sunday dinners over here every Sunday. We'd all go to church, then after church we'd all get together at Grandma's -- me, my mom and dad, Vera and her husband Elmer, Sheri and her dad and stepmom and stepbrother and sister, sometimes even more. We'd have an enormous dinner and then the adults would sit around and talk while us kids went into the back bedrooms to play, or outside, if the weather was nice. Grandma was always there.

She's always been there. I was beginning to believe that she'd always be there. I'm just starting to realize how much I'm going to miss her when she's gone.

I feel like there's so much more to say about this, but I don't know where to begin. My religious beliefs, what there was of them, are being rocked to the core. I want to believe the way my grandma and Vera do. I want that kind of faith. I want to believe in God as something more than an abstract being. Posted by Lisa at August 6, 2001 07:30 PM