Dear beautiful grandma...

 From my Livejournal, April 25, 2005

So I woke up today to phones ringing. I hate phones ringing. The night my father died, I knew that call was important because not only was it late, but first my home phone rang....then my cell phone...then my work phone. Anyone who has all those and tries them has something important to tell me. It was never THAT important until the night they called to tell me my Dad was dead.
So when the home phone, then my cell phone, then my work phone rang, I was checking to see who it was as Chris' cell phone rang. It was my sister and I called her back. Seems Grandma has pneumonia, and they have her on antibiotics. But when Ev consulted G-mas wishes for life-saving measures, she lists antibiotics as a no-no. Ev was calling all of us sibs to poll us as to whether we believed the page said what it said, and how we wanted to handle it. We are all in agreement that this would be a life-saving measure she has asked not to be given. So we are telling the doctors to stop giving her antibiotics, and we will see how she does...

Ev was in "practical" mode, and commented that it would probably hit her hard later. I told her if she needed company, Chris and I would come be with her. Ev had moved G-ma to a facility in Des Moines, and has been staying nearby all week. She took us up on it, and after a late breakfast we drove down to see G-ma and Ev. Ev had had a really hard cry before we got there, and was back in practical mode.

Grandma is small and tired, but of good color. She can't really speak, and is not really cognizant anyway. She would sometimes nod, sometimes mumble something, would freak out if you tried to move her even a little bit, and looked so tiny in that bed. She didn't seem to recognize me at all, and was fading in and out of sleep, partly due to a combination of vicodin and oxycontin they have her on for her hip pain. She is also sometimes on oxygen, being given insulin a few times a day due to abnormally high blood sugar levels, and goes on a medicated breather a couple times a day to help keep the plegm in her chest from solidifying. She trembles a lot, and has a look like she wants to say something, but says nothing, and her eyes drift shut.

I sat on the bed and held her hand, studying her face. Even as drawn and marked as it is at this time, she is so beautiful to me. Her silver and black hair so sparse on her head now, so silky to the touch as I stroked it and looked at her. I wonder what she thought of this stranger touching her with such familiarity and gazing at her with a half-smile as I did, but she didn't push me away or seem irritated by me. As I stroked her hair, she seemed to drift into a comfortable sleep, but her eyes would pop open when I stopped. Her skin felt soft and elsatic, but fragile and thin. Her lips tremble a lot, and her brow furrows in frustration, but her eyes don't focus on things much, and she lays awkwardly in the bed doing nothing. She can't hear you unless you lean in and yell, and I fear I will startle her if I do that too much. Hell, the sound of my own voice sounds so harsh and startling to my own ears in this quiet place. I feel completely at a loss as to what I am supposed to do. So I just try to touch her and let her know I am there...somehow.

We go grab an afternoon snack at Anthony's in the Marina, sitting in the spring sunshine having a drink to calm our nerves. We talk amiably, and enjoy the smell of flowers and ocean. We drop back in on Grandma briefly to see how she is doing, and she is unchanged. The nurse comes in and pokes her harshly with an insulin needle. Grandma, startled and pained, yelps out, her trembling fingers trying to reach the point of the puncture, but not having the strength to rub her wound. She begins to cry, and Ev wipes her tears and tells her it's okay. "We're here, Grandma," she says, stroking her hair back and kissing her forehead. "We're here. Calm down. It's okay." I hold her hand and feel helpless.

Ev is gentle and patient with Grandma. She puts on her oxygen tube, and sits her up slowly. She is obviously wanting to hear something from Grandma. Some sign that she is lucent, and understands what choices are being made. At one point, Grandma's eyes take on a brief, seconds-long clarity, and she quietly but clearly says, "I understand..." and trails off. "You understand what, Grandma?" Evelyn yells, taking her hand in her own and kissing it gently. "I understand..." but she can't seem to finish the thought, let alone get the breath in her fluid filled lungs to finish a sentence. Unspoken, I know we both wish we could believe she was saying she understands that she is on the brink of the abyss, and she understands that we won't pull her back because she asked us not to. We hope that her words mean she understands that we love her, and that we want the best for her. That we don't want her to go, and in our hearts know that she wants to go, and so we will let her. We pray that it is her somehow surfacing from the deep waters of her muddled consciousness to tell us "It's okay." But there is no guarantee that her words meant anything at all...

We decide to head to Saltwater beach park for a stroll. We take our cameras, but there is little of interest to photograph. We chat, pet dogs, and leave. We aren't hungry yet for our favorite Chinese restaurant, our intended dinner destination, so we need to kill some time. We decided to drive around Burien, looking at how much it has changed since we lived there. We go past the old house I lived in after Evelyn had long since moved away. We drive past schools and shops, reminiscing about our childhood, and marvelling, as we always do, how two sisters' lives can be so different thanks to the 10 years that separate our age. And yet, so much of what we remember is the same. Like Wah Ku's, were we head next.

We eat a meal far too large to be eaten so soon after our appetizers and beers on the deck, but it's so delicious we can't stop eating. We roll out of there with overfull bellies and a bag full of leftovers to last several days' lunches. Chris and I drive Evelyn back to the facility, and go up to see if Grandma is awake. But she's not. She is bright red--too hot from the coating of blankets they have on her. Evelyn gently peels back the blankets and wakes Grandma to say hello, but she is too tired to open her eyes more than a second or two. I sit on the bed and rest my palm on her forehead. "Ooh, you're cold," she mumbles and almost smiles. She never opens her eyes and she doesn't say anything else. I tell Ev I don't want to bother her any more, and we say our goodbyes and leave.

On the drive home, Chris asks me how I am doing. I can't find enough words to thank him for being there all day. Never once seeming impatient, or mentioning the dozen errands we were supposed to run that day. He doesn't bring up the work he was supposed to do this afternoon, and instead has to go into work early tomorrow to complete. He never sighed heavily, trying to let me know how much he would rather be someplace else. He never did the things I would do in his shoes. I am unworthy...in the best most blessed way. I want to be more like my husband. He is a good man, and a remarkable human being....

So that was my day. I got to see my beautiful Grandmother. Maybe she saw me. I think in some way she did. I hope to see her again before the end. I do and I don't... I was pleased to realize as I studied her face that I would not only remember her this way. that was my greatest fear. That the image of her today, weak and delirious, would scar my other memories of her. But it didn't. I added it o my memories. She was beautiful...