My Grandmother had this dream a few months ago, that her mother came to her bedside looking like her wedding portrait, glowing and beautiful. That she smiled at her. Grammy said she knew then she needed to be prepared, that she would soon go up… She would lift her hand and point to the ceiling when she said this.
I pre-arranged her funeral.
A week ago I had to go home. I had been in her room for days. I hovered too much, and cried too often. It wasn’t doing anyone any good. Trying to feed her one night, my Grandmother snapped Stop it. I left the following morning. I was of no use to her, and knew she would resent further fussing, as if I could do something. I collected myself. Cried on my own time. When I went back the next day I smiled for her. She smiled back and faintly spoke I been waiting…
You’ve been waiting for me?
She nodded and when I hugged her, she pressed her cheek against my hair. She was stable. Not good, but stable. My oldest sister Kate stayed the next two days, giving me a break, letting me take care of my mother’s paperwork, and giving me a chance to compose myself for the care conference.
There will come a time when she will not open her mouth, will not accept fluids. Are you prepared for this?
I said I was. We spoke calmly about the steps to be taken. The measures that would ensure her comfort. A room full of people who had seen this all before. And me, in my officious blazer, pretending to have an idea of what was to come.
I was with her after that, every day. No longer swinging between overeager and maudlin, but waiting for clear signs to move her, to shift her in the bed inches up, to the side. Asking her permission. Smiling. Telling her I loved her.
On Wednesday morning I had a dream I was out with friends when I heard that she had died, I screamed my horror and anguish into the pillow. When I woke up, hoarse, I was at the foot of her bed. I looked at her and knew it would not be much longer. They had just finished feeding her breakfast. While I washed up, she aspirated on the thickened juice, I heard her choke and pulled her upright. The liquid fell from her mouth almost all at once and she breathed.
There would be no more liquid. No more food.
It will be soon I sent my sisters this message. I couldn’t say it aloud.
Thursday morning her breaths rattled and shook her entire body and her eyes were wide and fixed on me. The chaplain came and prayed. Talk to her, tell her how you feel. Remember with her. When she left, I couldn’t speak, could only look at her, hold her hand. Do you want me to talk to you? She nodded yes. I started, and it felt strange to recall these things we had been through, how she had cared for me. How she had loved me, raised me, kept me safe, sane. But I spoke because it was what she needed. Remember when we were in the subway? I was little, and as we got to the train, the doors closed and I was on one side and you were on the other? And you pounded the door over and over until they opened.
She nodded.
We will always be together.
My own thoughts became a mess then and instead I read from the book I brought. I was not paying attention to the words coming from my mouth until I realized that the material was highly inappropriate and stopped abruptly, choosing another story from the anthology, hoping she hadn’t understood the last one.
My Grandmother is strong. She lived through the war, the loss of her first husband, through an abusive second husband, a cruel daughter, a cruel fate. She was a nurse, she is kind, and funny, she outlived friends who loved her. She likes soap operas and Jeopardy, pickles and candy. She is the world to me, but I can’t describe her in any way that would express who she is, and what she has done. She is, and has done everything. And what hurts the most in losing her is knowing that most of her life has been hard, painful. She deserved more and I couldn’t give it to her. So I just hold her hand. Her breathing calmed. When my sister arrived, she had stabilized. We stayed until she fell asleep and went to talk over lunch.
It won’t be today. It will be Friday. I said.
Why do you say that?
Because when I asked Gabrielle to come Friday, she asked why and I told her I could only stay until Friday, she asked me why, asked what comes after Friday… and I didn’t know why I had said that, I don’t intend to leave her… I just couldn’t see anything beyond that.
My sister nodded at me like this was perfectly sane. It wasn’t.
Thursday night the RN prepared Grandma for bed, read her oxygen saturation. My Grandmother raised her hand, pointing to the ceiling.
What did she say? Maria asked.
My face was hot and wet when I answered. She said I go up…
Friday morning she is in pain. The Tylenol with codeine no longer works. Weisia asks me if I will approve a Fentanyl patch. I consent. I spend the morning alone with her, changing her frequently as her stomach begins to shut down. The support workers would do this, but it happens so often that they have become too efficient, and outside her room I hear her scream. I have done this for years, with me she is a little more calm, and I am careful. Every time I turn her I see the dressing on her back grow more spotted. She has lost too much weight. Despite the special air mattress, her bones rub their way through her skin. Soon you will get stronger medicine. It will be much better. I promise. She nods.
Friday afternoon Kate returns with my mother. I had tried for three weeks to get in touch with her, but she ignored my calls. My sisters do not speak to my mother and so she answered Kate. Maybe hopeful
I said it was too late, that at this stage, my mother’s wailing theatrics would only disturb my grandmother. I considered having security stop her.
That’s not the right thing. I said, changing my mind. Grandma, do you want to see Lucia? She nods, yes.
I had asked her this before. When she was well. They had been apart for seven years because it was better for Grandma not to see her emotionally abusive child. Things are different now.
I send my sister to collect our mother from her nursing home. No wailing. Do not upset Grandma. This is not about you. You have one hour. I write these terms on a sheet of paper. My mother agrees to them.
During her visit she cries and it is understandable. Human. It doesn’t make me less angry with her. I have never understood the way she treated her own mother. They took narcissistic personality disorder out of the DSM and yet my mother continues to exist. My Grandmother responds to the sound of her voice, twice by moaning with unease. I had not heard these sounds before. There are also times when my mother calls to her Mama that she seems content. She is not lucid, but she is aware, in some delirium.
This is a very nice view… what is the food like? My mother asks at the end the hour. It’s time for her to go.
I’m alone with Grandma again. She has settled a bit. I am counting down the time for her, until the Fentanyl. She waits. Anita brings me quiche, and tea. I eat by her side, and hum through my chewing so she has some sound to assure her she is not alone.
Gabrielle comes, she sits with Grandma while I take a bath in the family room. The sound of running water is one of the only things that calms me. When I get back, she has the patch. She struggles faintly but not as if she’s underwater. Gabrielle leaves. I sit with her and play her music on my ipod, cellos and piano. She smiles and is still. When Kate arrives she eats the dinner Gabrielle has left her and settles down on the floor to sleep. I stay in the chair, drink coffee and stare out the window. The water and sky are so blue, the buildings faint and glowing. I feel calm. Grandma stirs a little, I clean her and try to settle her in bed for the night.
Okay? I ask her
What? She says, the sound protracted, sleepy and irritated. I recognize this tone, she is being pulled under by the drugs and I keep bringing her up.
Okay. I lightly touch her shoulder and sit back down. I have a book. I do not pull the chair into a bed. I intend to stay up all night. I read three short stories. At twelve-thirty I feel tired. Exhausted. I can hardly move as I set my alarm for one-thirty. I pull the bed out.
I don’t dream.
The light is on suddenly.
Irene’s voice wakes me. She is gone, girls. She has passed.
I kneel on my bed, at the foot of hers. She is still, her hands together. Pale. I wait for her to inhale, for her chest to rise. The air of the mattress on constant flow makes me see it for a moment.
I can’t breathe. Irene tucks me to her. I know, I know. But this is okay, it’s okay because it was peaceful and she was sleeping. I can only stare at her. Willing for her to move. Girls, you need to wait outside, we will clean her and then you come back and wait for Doctor to pronounce. In the dim corridor against the wall I struggle for air.
Tucked into my bra, against my chest, the alarm on my cell phone goes off.
I hate myself for sleeping. I hate myself for not being with her in that moment.
Back in her room we sit with her. This is the time you need to be with her spirit. She is in this room now and this is time to sit Irene says, and leaves to phone the doctor.
Faintly in the back of my head I hear her voice
Mein kochanie… Mein kochanie.
Over and over.
I can only stare at my Grandmother’s frail body. Pale and cold. She’s right you know. Kate declares matter-of-fact. I touch my Grandmother’s hand softly. She’s not in there. I can’t stand her, the sound of her voice interrupting.
Stop. Talking.
There is nothing after Friday.
