A rhythmically mechanical sound like the rise of a chest, followed by a robotic exhalation sends me to sleep in my grandmother’s chair. Positioned beside her bed, the oxygen machine between us, I curl as best I can given the length and width of me.
As I close my eyes I see her, her own eyes half open but unaware. Hazy. Her legs move now and then under the sheet but otherwise she appears to be still. It’s the afternoon. This is when she sleeps easier.
My lower lip is swollen from the constant gnawing. My skin uneven, spotted with blemishes and my chin and neck are stretched thin and dry. Cracking in places tears, neglected where they fell, pooled and evaporated. I make an effort to stop biting. Wipe my face with tissue before counting backwards, to keep from vomiting. The panic always comes before sleep. When I wake up, it’s evening. I go home, pack a bag, and return to her room, now dark.
Up, she says hours later, and I scramble over to her without first putting on my glasses.
You want me to get you up? I press the left button on the panel and the head of her bed rises slowly, over the loud hum I hear Get up… I release the button and put my left ear closer to her face to hear her better. Poor Julia, she kisses my cheek, you don’t want to give up.
I gather my toiletries and step silently down the empty corridor, dimmed overnight as to not disturb the residents. My feet are bare and make no sound on the carpet. For someone so physically awkward, I know how to be absolutely silent when necessary. In the staff washroom I take off my makeup, wash my face, brush my teeth and comb my hair. I stare at myself, the lines under my eyes, the red spots, flakes of dry skin. I am determined not to let her see me like this in the morning. She is always concerned with physical appearances. The slightest mark on my face, the frizziness of my hair, the state of my clothes seems to throw her into fits of concern. Now is not the time for that. I need to pull it together. Walking away from the sink I notice that the floor is dirty in places and I mentally retrace my steps trying to determine if I walked over the suspiciously greasy area. When I return to her room, I take disinfectant wipes to my soles and arrange myself back in the chair.
As I tuck myself into the plush recliner and try to sleep I suddenly remember the instructions I gave Rekha two years ago at my first Christmas party:
Don’t let me fall asleep sitting down.
Earlier that day I had read something about a girl my age who got drunk at a party, squatted down in a kitchen and passed out. Her friends had walked by her, going about their business without waking her. During that length of time her circulation had been cut off. Compartment syndrome had set in. When she came to, she couldn’t move. They had to amputate her legs.
This was not going to happen to me because I had left specific instructions…
I promise I won’t let you fall asleep sitting down… and stop reading weird things on the Internet.
Considering my options now, Rekha-less, I move.
In the morning I am half under the bed. The nurse greets my feet and I jump up, immediately checking that my grandmother is still alive. Her chest, showing every bone beneath, twitches an unsteady rhythm.
Hours later I follow the sweet-faced care coordinator down the hall. The walls of the home are decorated with pictures of religious figures. Jesus, Mary, the Polish pope. We settle in the pastoral room. She explains to me that part of the end of life package includes friends of the nursing home gathering offsite to pray for my grandmother. Thank you, that would be nice for her, I say.
And they will pray for you too, of course.
I don’t tell her I’m an atheist because in that moment I’m not sure what I am.
They deliver a basket filled with things meant to make her more comfortable. There is a soft stuffed bear, a crucifix, classical cds, a blanket… it’s all I can manage to go through. I place the crucifix on her dresser, and the bear under her slowly grasping hand. Back in the chair, I look up to the wall above me where she had pinned a rosary. I take it down and wrap it around the rail of the bed.
During the day she is mostly still, sometimes she smiles. At night everything seems to deteriorate. I watch her more intently. Drink the coffee they bring me. Do you want your blanket? I whisper to her. I don’t know why I am trying to be quiet other than the room is dark and everyone whispers in the dark, unsure of how far the sound will travel. But she’s nearly deaf and there is no way she can hear me. When I cover her she makes no move to shake the blanket off. I sit back and quietly apply more moisturizer to my jaw.
An hour passes. I put my glasses on to check that she is still breathing. Unable to see in best of times, but especially not in the dark. I can’t tell, so I ask her, louder this time, if she’s thirsty, if she wants water. She shakes her head no. I want… She says the polish word for Gingerale. I don’t know the word but like the memory game can now associate the sound with previous action. She loves gingerale but I don’t want to give it to her. Earlier in the night she aspirated on the bubbles. Water? I suggest again… No. She won’t be swayed and so I shake a half empty can of diet gingerale until it goes flat. This is followed by thickened peach flavoured liquid. After three spoons she motions for me to stop. I put the rest on the rolling tray and return to the chair. Her left hand searches out tentatively and grasps the rail. I cover it with my own. Her right hand pats my arm, and we stay that way for a little while.
Don’t be afraid for grandma, she tells me.
She has not been able to lie still for the past twelve hours. I have not been able to sit still for the past twelve hours as I try and fail to make her comfortable.
What if I turn…
No.
Maybe it will help if I…
It doesn’t.
I turn her on her side and put a pillow under her, trying to relieve the pressure on her back, something I learned in the years caring for my mother, she stays for only a minute before righting herself. I raise and lower the head of the bed like a thief twists a dial to a safe, listening for any sound of relief. Nothing. Her face contorts in pain. Her hands wave in the air, restlessly, over and over. I use the transfer sheet to move her up, her face relaxes, her hands still waver.
In the dark of her washroom, crowded with furniture, I wash my face and deliberately avoid the mirror. Please god. I say, please just let her go.
I am talking to myself.
