When I was twelve I had a nightmare that my grandmother was killed, I was screaming in my sleep and so she had come to my room to check on me. I woke up and held on to her crying. Shhhhush, she said. She would never leave me.
I mostly sit, a kind of vigil, but with the modern amenities to keep me from obsessing. Audiobooks and television. The chairs are still uncomfortable and I’m sure that is another thing about hospitals, like fluorescent lighting and hallway mazes, that will never change. When she opens her eyes I smile at her, assure her I’m still here, and she nods and closes her eyes again. Her chest moves slowly and softly and I have to watch her intently sometimes just to be sure that I’m not imagining it.
She’s tiny now. She’s always been little, I call her my pocket Grandma, but she’s more a fragile kind of small that worries me. I feed her jello, encouraging her to eat more than just two spoons but her will is stronger than mine, and she doesn’t feel like eating. I should find this comforting, that she has some fight in her at all is a good sign, but maybe it’s that I’m a pushover, and she’s just had enough. Lime is her favourite, so I am leaning towards this being a bad thing. It takes time to talk these days, she has reverted back to Polish, and I have to remind her I only speak English. After a while she responds that she’s not in pain, not hungry, and I’m not sure if I believe her in either language.
Seven years ago after swallowing a couple dozen pills, I sat in the dark beside my mother’s empty hospital bed in the living room of our house. I watched Conan O’Brien make fondue with an elderly cook. I thought of my grandmother upstairs.
I have a stomach ache, I am going to the hospital. I will be fine. I wrote haphazardly on a piece of paper.
I love you very much.
I couldn’t leave her alone.
Two weeks ago when I found her in the emergency ward she was confused, she didn’t know where she was, how she got here, or where her slippers were. Though she is ninety-five, she has never been confused, never given signs of dementia and seeing her this way made it feel as if she was already gone. My grandmother, though disoriented wasn’t uneasy about this, just… perplexed. There was a needle discarded on top of the blanket. I picked it up and put it aside, wondering where it had come from until I saw the trail of blood leading back to her arm where it should have been. The blanket, her grey cotton sweat pants and pink t-shirt were soaked in spots.
I tend to distract myself by pretending I’m a television doctor or detective. I pretend I am not myself. I pretend I am not terrified. I went to the nurses’ station.
It’s okay, I told her, a nurse is coming, she’ll fix this.
When the nurse checked in we took off her bloodstained clothes and replaced them with a gown.
Am I prisoner? She asked, looking up at me.
No, no, no you’re not a prisoner, I said. You’re in the hospital. Everything is okay. They’re just looking after you.
Oh, she said.
And we calmed down. By that I mean I calmed down. She was actually pretty calm for someone who thought she was back in Nazi-occupied Poland. I was going to cry. She’s always been the strong one.
After the nurse checked her vitals she brought in a blanket that had been warmed.
Ahhhh is so nice, said my grandmother. I was so cold before, I felt in arm, cold, and then I touch and PAINT! Was red paint, all over. I don’t know where it come from this paint.
Feeling the cold in her arm, filling with room-temperature fluids, she pulled the line and the blood that came out in no small amount wasn’t real to her, wasn’t hers. The contrast of the reality of this situation with the hallucination twisted inside of me over and over until I thought I would break in two.
It’s okay now, don’t worry about that, I said.
And then I turned to the lake scene on the wall beside the angry monitor, forgot about being a TV doctor, and I started crying. Furiously reminding myself that I could scare her by becoming hysterical, I tried to pull it together.
When I looked back at her she asked me Why is so red, you eyes?
Oh, I’m hot, I said, it’s hot outside and I’m sweating, and the sweat it got in my eyes. You know me, I sweat A LOT. I’m going to go to the washroom now, okay? I’ll be back.
Okay.
Later I was told that my grandmother was in a state of delirium due to oxygen deprivation. That she wouldn’t remember the hallucinations or any of it. If it makes you feel any better, my doctor said explaining this to me. It did.
But not knowing this at the time, inside the washroom I slid down the wall crying. Actors do this in the movies for a reason, it’s what actual people do when their legs can’t hold them up anymore. I hyperventilated for a while. It’s kind of my thing. I have a predictable reaction to stress that begins with the silent cry. During this stage my whole face turns red with the effort not to make a noise while my shirt grows increasingly wet, contrasting with the denial of crying. The next is the hyperventilation. This is a rather lengthy, ugly, noisy expression of sadness, and panic. It is followed by catatonia. I don’t so much go to my happy place at this time, rather I mentally pull a blanket over my head and just shut off for a while. Should the process not be interrupted at any point, I will have exhausted myself thoroughly, cried myself dry, and slowly heaving laid down, splotchy, and damp. I will then fall asleep.
In this instance, being in a hospital washroom and knowing I had to stop this for the sake of my grandmother, I put off steps 2-4 until later, and went back to her bedside. We sat for a while, the whole time my oldest sister stayed in the corner, having explained she had a cold. She didn’t say much and hadn’t made any attempts to move. Distance is easier, I know. My grandmother asked if we’d eaten and it seemed a good time to go, I knew if we didn’t she would worry about us not eating when she should be resting. Do you think you will sleep now?
Ya, I go sleep… she said and closed her eyes. I pulled the sheet up to her chin and she settled in.
Years ago I signed her DNR, at her insistence, despite my objections, two months ago pre-arranged her funeral under the same circumstances. Both made me feel physically ill. Both fill me with dread, like I made this happen.
Today her nurse at the home sees me collecting her laundry to take and wash. She sits me, and my empty plastic bags, down. She tells me that there is nothing anyone can do when the heart fails like this. That one day, the muscle will just stop working. I cry and she pats me reassuringly and tells me that it is okay. Anita and I have had this conversation before, almost exactly two years ago after my grandmother had a major stroke. I am hoping it will be like that time, that while everything seems a forgone conclusion, my grandmother pulls through and amazes everyone.
This is why Anita feels the need for these talks; she sees my dopey hopeful face and thinks I need to be prepared. I should tell her that under the delusional optimism lies the certainty that she’s going to die any minute. When the phone rings, I have a panic attack. Every time I leave her at the nursing home, I am struck with the feeling that it will have been my last chance to say that I love her, and then I say it so much I worry it will lose meaning.
I am the kind of person who can convince herself of one thing while being paralyzed with the fear of the opposite. Like the boogeyman. The boogeyman does not exist. But some nights, after turning off the lights, I run to my bed.
Living in a constant state of contradiction is all I know. Sometimes I think by expecting the worst and projecting optimism I am keeping the wolves at bay. I am hedging my bets, working all angles.
Anita explains that they can only stabilize her for so long, talks about restricted fluid intake, blood pressure medication creating more fluids, loss of electrolytes. Tells me that it is a vicious cycle. I will have to consider end of life care. She is not unkind in explaining the science of the heart— its diminishing returns. I should know this.
There are no angles. I can only wait with my grandmother, losing her by increments.
