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My maternal grandmother died this morning at 12:13AM. I watched her take her last breath.
Yesterday I was working on completing a chapter to my story. I had finished up shortly after 5PM, and was about ready to start the proof reading process (which consists of some alcohol and loud music, the complete opposite of my writing state). Then the phone rang. I vaguely recognized my mother’s cell number. She was supposed to still be in California (visiting my Aunt Margie, who lives in Torrance). As my mother calls me frequently, and I was just about to start on the secondary process of this chapter, I almost didn’t pick up. But I did.
My mom, her twin sister Diane and their older sister Margie had all left California early and now were at my grandparents house. That morning Grandpa had found her hanging off the bed, blue lips, but still breathing. He called my uncle David, and by the time he got there, somehow Grandpa had gotten her back into bed. After hospice was called, it had been determined that there had been some sort of fault with the oxygen tank in the machine (my grandmother has been on constant oxygen through tubes in her nose since before the beginning of this year).
Because of the DNR and hospice, they brought in a hospital bed and set it up in the living room of my grandparents’ house. She was unconscious for a while, but woke to see my mother, my aunts, and my uncle. And when I came to the house after 5PM, she looked at me. I held her hand, and she opened her pale blue eyes and said my name. I talked to her about the cappuccino mix my mother gave her which she offered me last time I visited (last week) and that eggplant parmesan she loves so much from the Olive Garden. I told her how much I loved her. And then she fell back to sleep.
I was in the back bedroom with my mother discussing what to tell my sister, Tam (in DC), when my aunt Diane called back to us. They couldn’t wake her up anymore; my grandma had gone unconscious.
The night was hell. Uncle David and aunt Margie were giving Grandma morphine under her tongue in half hour increments, which slowed to 2 hours increments. The morphine, according to the nurses, didn’t slow down or speed up death, but it helped make her comfortable. Unconscious as she was, they said she couldn’t feel pain, but she would be more comfortable.
It’s hard for me to describe how different she looked. I mean, I adore my grandmother, and I understand her health has been failing. She couldn’t move well on her own, and she was so sick that she almost craved death. But when I saw her there on that hospital bed, unconscious, struggling to breathe, her lips nearly colorless, I sobbed like a baby. I couldn’t help it. It’s a pain that hurts so badly, it not even fathomable.
The hospice nurse came out around 10PM to check her vitals. She couldn’t even gauge her blood pressure, and told us it would be soon. Because the RN was on call, she had to leave us (which I guess is normal in the “hospice” world). She told us to call her when the moment had come.
I sent my husband, Erik home with Ryan (my step-son) around 10:30PM. Erik wanted to be by my side (his grandmother passed from lung-cancer several decades ago, his grandfather killed himself in 04), and Ryan, bless his heart, wanted to help me and especially Grandpa. But he was falling asleep, and witnessing death can’t exactly be beneficial for a 14-year-old boy.
My grandmother was very religious, along with my aunt Diane (she’s married to a Lutheran minister). Both my mother and her twin went to Lutheran schools growing up, and they had all of these hymns memorized. So for the next several hours, they sang to Grandma while taking turns wiping her down with a washcloth and giving her morphine. She never regained consciousness.
In the end, it was her four children and I. Grandpa had been sent to bed; he is weak, and he had already made peace and said his goodbyes to his wife of nearly 60 years. There was something indescribable about watching her struggle to breathe. All these memories flooded back, of playing Yatzee and that silly game Memory with the flashcards of two of a kind. Her singing to me and telling me stories. As a child, she was my world, and it seemed so wretched, so brutal that I had to watch her struggle in that final breath.
Death is not peaceful. And yes, I understand that she had it easier than most, but I saw her self-preservation. Even with the morphine, with being unconscious, I witnessed her body fight to hold onto this world.
The funeral is scheduled for Tuesday. I picked up Tam at 11:30 this morning; she flew in on Midwest from DC. I thought Dad would pick her up, but she woke me up at 7AM to ask. I’ve slept three hours since 5:45AM Saturday morning. I think I could fall over at any moment, but I’m waiting for the next call to come back out to my grandparents’ house.
They sent us “kids” home for the meantime. I bought some clothes for the funeral on the way home, and here I am now, typing away. Perhaps it helps to share? I don’t know.
Yesterday I was working on completing a chapter to my story. I had finished up shortly after 5PM, and was about ready to start the proof reading process (which consists of some alcohol and loud music, the complete opposite of my writing state). Then the phone rang. I vaguely recognized my mother’s cell number. She was supposed to still be in California (visiting my Aunt Margie, who lives in Torrance). As my mother calls me frequently, and I was just about to start on the secondary process of this chapter, I almost didn’t pick up. But I did.
My mom, her twin sister Diane and their older sister Margie had all left California early and now were at my grandparents house. That morning Grandpa had found her hanging off the bed, blue lips, but still breathing. He called my uncle David, and by the time he got there, somehow Grandpa had gotten her back into bed. After hospice was called, it had been determined that there had been some sort of fault with the oxygen tank in the machine (my grandmother has been on constant oxygen through tubes in her nose since before the beginning of this year).
Because of the DNR and hospice, they brought in a hospital bed and set it up in the living room of my grandparents’ house. She was unconscious for a while, but woke to see my mother, my aunts, and my uncle. And when I came to the house after 5PM, she looked at me. I held her hand, and she opened her pale blue eyes and said my name. I talked to her about the cappuccino mix my mother gave her which she offered me last time I visited (last week) and that eggplant parmesan she loves so much from the Olive Garden. I told her how much I loved her. And then she fell back to sleep.
I was in the back bedroom with my mother discussing what to tell my sister, Tam (in DC), when my aunt Diane called back to us. They couldn’t wake her up anymore; my grandma had gone unconscious.
The night was hell. Uncle David and aunt Margie were giving Grandma morphine under her tongue in half hour increments, which slowed to 2 hours increments. The morphine, according to the nurses, didn’t slow down or speed up death, but it helped make her comfortable. Unconscious as she was, they said she couldn’t feel pain, but she would be more comfortable.
It’s hard for me to describe how different she looked. I mean, I adore my grandmother, and I understand her health has been failing. She couldn’t move well on her own, and she was so sick that she almost craved death. But when I saw her there on that hospital bed, unconscious, struggling to breathe, her lips nearly colorless, I sobbed like a baby. I couldn’t help it. It’s a pain that hurts so badly, it not even fathomable.
The hospice nurse came out around 10PM to check her vitals. She couldn’t even gauge her blood pressure, and told us it would be soon. Because the RN was on call, she had to leave us (which I guess is normal in the “hospice” world). She told us to call her when the moment had come.
I sent my husband, Erik home with Ryan (my step-son) around 10:30PM. Erik wanted to be by my side (his grandmother passed from lung-cancer several decades ago, his grandfather killed himself in 04), and Ryan, bless his heart, wanted to help me and especially Grandpa. But he was falling asleep, and witnessing death can’t exactly be beneficial for a 14-year-old boy.
My grandmother was very religious, along with my aunt Diane (she’s married to a Lutheran minister). Both my mother and her twin went to Lutheran schools growing up, and they had all of these hymns memorized. So for the next several hours, they sang to Grandma while taking turns wiping her down with a washcloth and giving her morphine. She never regained consciousness.
In the end, it was her four children and I. Grandpa had been sent to bed; he is weak, and he had already made peace and said his goodbyes to his wife of nearly 60 years. There was something indescribable about watching her struggle to breathe. All these memories flooded back, of playing Yatzee and that silly game Memory with the flashcards of two of a kind. Her singing to me and telling me stories. As a child, she was my world, and it seemed so wretched, so brutal that I had to watch her struggle in that final breath.
Death is not peaceful. And yes, I understand that she had it easier than most, but I saw her self-preservation. Even with the morphine, with being unconscious, I witnessed her body fight to hold onto this world.
The funeral is scheduled for Tuesday. I picked up Tam at 11:30 this morning; she flew in on Midwest from DC. I thought Dad would pick her up, but she woke me up at 7AM to ask. I’ve slept three hours since 5:45AM Saturday morning. I think I could fall over at any moment, but I’m waiting for the next call to come back out to my grandparents’ house.
They sent us “kids” home for the meantime. I bought some clothes for the funeral on the way home, and here I am now, typing away. Perhaps it helps to share? I don’t know.
depressed
listless