She's gone, take 2

I tried to write this last night, but nights are hard. I'm finding that in the light of day I'm mostly able to think about the good times and remember my grandma with fondness. In the dark of night, though, the sorrow creeps in and I can't stop the tears. I do, however, want to get this down before I forget the intensity of that night. While it is so incredibly hard and emotional, it is also an amazing thing to be able to comfort someone as they prepare to leave earth, and I don't want to forget.

With that, I issue this warning - This post is for me, not you. You may read it, and please do if you are interested, but know that it may be somewhat graphic, it will certainly be sad, and it may make you uncomfortable. Don't say I didn't warn you.





Mom, Dad and I left Portland about 8:30 am and flew to Missoula via Seattle. We landed in Missoula around 12:40, so I suppose we got to Grandma and Frank's around 1 or 1:15. When we got there my Uncle Bob and Aunt Donna, Grandma's brother and his wife, were already there. When we prepared to go into the bedroom to see Grandma, Aunt Donna said, "be prepared." I thought, yeah right, how bad can it be? As of Friday, she was wheelchair bound, but she was still able to go to her doctor appointment, ask questions, etc. Mom and Dad had just been there one week ago to the day and she was sitting in a chair in the living room chatting with them at 10 oclock at night. How much difference could a few days make?

Apparently, a ton. When I walked into the bedroom I saw a shadow of my grandma. She was in bed, with her head on a pillow. Those of you who knew her well will understand how bizarre that is. My grandma hated pillows. She had this teeny tiny little thing that she used, all wadded up in a pillow case that dwarfed the pillow. I believe this was the first time I saw her with her head on a real pillow while lying in her own bed.

On Monday the hospice nurses put her on a morphine pump, and she was incredibly drugged up by the time we got there Tuesday afternoon. She knew who we were - when I walked in and said, "Hi Grandma!" (loudly, so as to break through the drug induced fog), she looked at me and managed to whisper, "Hi sweetie," the way I remember her greeting me all my life. She asked after my puppy, which made me laugh - my grandmother, who loved animals but was anti-house pet until she met her second husband, wanted to know where my dog was! - and I told her Ricky was at home with him, as Ricky had to work and couldn't come visit.

I sat with her for a few minutes, talking with her. Well, talking to her is more like it. She really couldn't hold a conversation, but she would respond now and again with "oh, that's nice" or a smile. Finally I told her I was going to let her rest. As I got up to leave the room she reached up for a hug. I told her I loved her and she whispered, or perhaps mouthed is a better description, "I love you too." I kissed her on the cheek and she kissed me, and I left to have a good cry.

Throughout the afternoon, I told her stories of things she and I had done together. She smiled and said, "That's nice." I teased her about her hair. There are very few things about which I am vain, but my hair is one of them, and I get it from my grandma. I remember when I was little and she'd go to get a permanent. When she'd get back my grandpa would say, "What's the matter, they couldn't get you in?" She'd get so mad at him! When I saw how little hair she had, I said, "Grandma, I love your new hairdo!" She laughed and patted her head.

Several times she tried to tell me something. First she started with, "I wish..." Another time she said, "I got to..." She never was strong enough to tell me what she wished or what she got to, though.

The final time that she was responsive and talkative that I was with her, I told her I was going to go and let her rest. She glommed onto the word "go" and said, "I'm leaving?" I told her that no, she wasn't going anywhere. Then she said, "You're leaving?" "No grandma, I'm just going to the living room. I'm staying here. I'm going to sleep here, if that's ok with you." She smiled and said something affirmative, "good" or "I'm glad" or something along those lines, though I can't remember her exact words right now. She gave him a hug and didn't want to let me go. I told her one more time that I loved her and she told me she loved me too. That turned out to be the last thing she'd say to me.

The hospice nurses came sometime after that and checked on her. They cleaned her up, changed her clothing, and did various other hospicey things. I don't remember how long it was, but it seemed like it took them hours. The next time I saw her, it was obvious all that work had worn her out. From then on, she only responded to us with smiles, head nods, and hand squeezes.

Her breathing had been fairly ragged and wheezy the whole day, but it continued to get worse. The hospice nurses told us that it would continue to get worse and would get gurgly. They left some things to help with that and upped her morphone, giving her a button to push for extra morphine doses. Of course, she wasn't strong enough to push it so we had to do it for her.

As the night went on, we realized just how bad things were getting. We decided to all tell her we loved her and give her permission to go. I'm not sure what everyone else said to her, but when I went in I told her that I loved her, that we all did, and that we didn't want to lose her but we also didn't want her to hurt anymore. At this point she hadn't been responding to us for a while, except to hold tight to our hands, so I didn't expect any kind of acknowledgement of what I was saying. I went on to tell her that it was ok to go, and that I wanted her to give Grandpa a big hug for me and tell him I love him and I missed him. When I said that, she very obviously nodded. It was the only response I got from her while I was talking to her, but it was very clear that she was saying yes, she would hug Grandpa and tell him for me.

By this point, Uncle Bob and Aunt Donna had retired to their hotel room for the night. Frank, Mom, Dad and I took turns sitting with Grandma. From the time hospice left until she passed, we didn't leave her alone. For a while, when we'd try to switch seats, she'd grab on tight to the hand she was holding, apparently not wanting us to leave. We'd switch and she'd be fine. Later, though, there was absolutely no response from her when we'd switch.

Sometime around 11 or 11:15, Dad noticed there was blood coming from her mouth. We called the hospice nurse on call, and she gave us some tips on what to do. We tried to roll Grandma onto her side, but it seemed to hurt her far too much. We did the best we could, and Dad swabbed the blood from her mouth. Soon Grandma started spitting it out with each breath. It was very clear that the end was near.

Grandma's breathing got more and more ragged, and soon her pulse was so faint that it was hard to feel with consistency. She'd breathe out and several seconds later Dad would say, "I think she's gone." Suddenly, she'd take one more breath. This went on for a few minutes, until just after midnight when she did truly expel her final breath. It was just after midnight, something we'd all been hoping for. Grandma had managed to make it to the next day, so she wouldn't pass on my cousin's 12th birthday.

The rest of the night, or morning as it were, is a blur of tears and hugs and sadness. I know the hospice nurse came and took Grandma's medicines away. I remember that we couldn't get Grandma's mouth to close, which struck me as funny since she always was talkative and she wouldn't close her mouth in death either. The funeral home people came and took her away, and we all said goodbye one more time. I was crying too much and couldn't actually say anything to her, but I gave her a kiss.

The rest of the trip was a whirlwind of emotions. We made funerary arrangements, chose a date for a memorial here at home, and went through countless and files of things to begin the process of dealing with the estate. It wore me out, and I got home yesterday afternoon completely exhausted.

I am so glad I was able to be with my grandma one more time. I'm extremely grateful that she knew who we were and could understand what we were saying and even respond to some extent. As ever when you lose someone, the whatifs and regrets are bombarding me from every direction. I want to pass on what my friend Leigh wrote to me:

Forgive yourself for your regrets. You did the best you could at the time and that is really all you could do. You didn't knowingly hurt your grandmother's feelings or not go visit when you knew you wouldn't have much time. We all do the best we can and that is what you did. Your grandmother knew how much you love her and you got there in time to say goodbye. You did the most important things right.

So now it's back to life, I guess. I feel like that isn't right, that I shouldn't be preparing to go back to work tomorrow. Not yet, it's too soon! But I need to. I just hate that part of my life has ended, but the world continues on as if nothing has happened. Shouldn't everyone's world stop like mine has? Shouldn't everyone's heart be shattered? Why can't people tell by looking at me that I've been through something terrible this week? I don't want to have to keep explaining!

The other thing I am struggling with is wrapping my brain around the fact that one minute she was breathing and the next, she wasn't. One second she was alive...and then she wasn't. We were talking about her in present tense, and then suddenly she became past tense. It's hard to remember that she is now a "was" instead of an "is." As real and as raw as it all is, even Saturday night I found myself thinking, "oh, I should call gramma and see..."

Somehow, someway, we will all get through this time. It will get easier, I know. That doesn't make these feelings any less real, but it does give me hope that there will be a time when I won't cry myself to sleep, a time when I can go through the day without tears springing to my eyes without warning. I've been through this twice before, I can do it again. I am strong. I am my grandmother's granddaughter, after all.