A Lesson From Ann

As I sit here beside my Grandma, she draws in fast, shallow breath. She uses her whole upper body to do this, and when she starts to talk, her lips start to turn purple. She is lying in bed right now. This bed is not just any bed though, this is the bed she and my grandfather slept in together for over 60 years. It sits in the house that he built to raise their children in. The house is on the block of a community that my grandfather was born in almost 90 years ago, and served as mayor for. He is now gone, but the hours are coming closer to their reunion. The hospice nurse enters the room and gives my grandmother a kiss on her forehead as if she is family. They chat with each other briefly, but soon the nurse says “You don’t have to talk, I want you to save your energy for your family.” She gives my grandma a drop of morphine, and leaves. I am holding my her hand and bring it to Penelope, who is snuggled up beside her. She pets her curls. I remember being fascinated with the green veins that bulged out from Grandma’s skin as a child. Now, they are even more noticeable, as my her diseases (congestive heart failure, and chronic pulmonary disease) have withered her body to nothing. Her and I sit in the morning light, and I feel utterly okay with everything that is happening. Truly at peace.

My grandmother grew up a happy child, worked diligently as a nurse, built a family, traveled to far away places, and now, in the desired course of life, is dying after 83 years.

Death: the greatest affirmation of life.

I find great comfort in knowing that as she dies, she will be able to do just that. There will be no heroic efforts to improve her oxygenation, control her heart failure, or make her gain weight. The only heroic thing that will be done is already happening. Grandma is leaving this world at home, with a simple grace that I am proud to witness. There are no hospitals, no machines, and no strangers poking or prodding her. There is her family, her cozy bed, her memories, and a little bit of medicine to keep her breathing easy. When I leave her bedside later that day, the departure is filled with hugs, kisses, and a “See you this weekend.” It was evident when we looked at each other however, that this would be the last time. It’s okay though. She is okay, and that makes me feel okay. I walk away, and the night passes, as does she, all while holding the hands of my mother, and uncle. I don’t know if dying is beautiful, but I think this is something of the sort. Grandma taught so many people throughout her life. What an incredible lesson it was for her to teach us how to die. I will miss her, but I am forever grateful.

#Peace #Grandma #Death #Penelope #RIP