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Public Service Announcement:  This may ramble...

My grandmother is dying.  It has been coming for a while.  She was put into memory care eight years ago with Alzheimer's, and three years ago suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage that we didn't think she would survive.  But she did.  She's a stubborn old gal.  It's where we get it. 

Some time Friday night, she suffered a massive right sided stroke, that has left her with left hemipareisis and unable to clear her own oral secretions, let alone take nutrition.  Her already murmured speech is now garbled and unitelligible.  She communicates through hand signs.  I wonder what she really is saying to the staff, and my aunts and uncle. 

You see, I am not there.  She is in Minneapolis, the seat of the family tree.  I am in Portland, a long ways away.  By my own choice, mind you.  Minneapolis was never home to me, not for the lack of trying.  For too many reasons, ones I will not go into here, but may touch on.  It is too bad my other siblings didn't get to know her like I did.  We moved when they were little, like 2 and 4.  Does David know?  Did anyone tell him?

Can I just be the first to say that anticipatory grieving sucks?  See, I watch other people do this.  I'm a nurse.  A cardiac nurse.  A night shift cardiac nurse.  I help other people to the door.  Watch over them and their loved ones in one of the most vulnerable moments of their existences.  Death.  The long exhale that does not come.  I hold hands, provide tissues, and words of what I hope is comfort in a time where no words can help.  I am learning, today, the importance of touch in these moments; how much a simple hug can do.  Oxytocin is a wonderful drug, and cannot seem to get enough.

We are waiting for her to die.  She is in hospice care, hopefully in a SNF, and out of the hospital.  She was fluid rescucitated at the hospital, so it will take a few days for her to leave.  Maybe three or four.  She is being kept comfortable.  I hope they are using scopalamine to dry up her oral secretions so she doesn't notice them.  I hope they are using ativan liberally, to stave off the panic.  But those of us who are not near are waiting, Aunt Hilary's posts to her CaringBridge journal our sole source of information.

I thought about going to visit while we wait.  But I don't know what good it would do.  I last saw her in '91.  I kind of want to remember her that way.  Spunky, funky, full of life.  Not immobile, helpless, and unable to communicate.  Are her nails still red and filed sharp?  Did they remember her lipstick?  I just don't want to go.  And I feel bad about that.  But, I cannot take time off work for anticipatory grieving.  I get bereavement after she dies, not before.  I really could use it now.  Oh, well.  The tears come when they come.  Fortunately, I work with a wonderful group of nurses who are being so supportive and caring.  They noticed right away that something was very wrong on Sunday when I showed up for my shift with tears puffing my eyes.  I'd known for less than two hours then.  My eyes are still puffy.  I'm waking up feeling like I've been crying for a while, my pillow wet. 

In my own way, I was close to Grandma.  She loved me for who I am.  She didn't blame me for the situation of my birth, who my father was, the marriage, or the divorce.  She was supportive, and helped me explore the world.  From a distance.  In her own way.  I was just telling my husband about her on Friday night, as I was packing up the boxes of presents to my own grandchildren.  Grandma taught me how to do Yule.  Boxes of wrapped gifts, chosen for the recipient with knowledge of who they were as a person.  Everyone received fairly, equally, but she handled the age differences well.  Candy, cookies, and a bit of fun.  One year it was ice skating.  Another it was tennis, complete with an outfit.  As we grew older, and there were more children, there was art supplies.  Thread art, paint by numbers.  Oh and the chicken, the marionette chicken.  Doug hated the chicken.   Little did I know, as I was talking about her, she was making her way to the door.  Maybe it was her way of letting me know.  Grandma will be with me every year as I prepare Yule for my grandchildren.  Maybe they will pass it on to theirs.

Christmas at her house, and we did it every year until we moved to Tucson, was a production.  Between visits to extended family, huge family dinners, an overdone tree, and piles of gifts that took up more room in the car than we did, it was memorable.  A week in the summer and a week in the winter in Ohio.  With family.  The only family I knew.  Aunts only a few years older than I, and an uncle a year younger, it was fun.  We'd watch Batman, and drink ginger ale, pretending it was beer and playing pirate.  We'd slide down the stairs on boxes.  Jingle bells, and carafes of wine in the snow on the deck. 

Watching my mother go through this from a distance is also hard.  We all get caught up in our own grieving.  She is wrapped up in hers.  So are my aunts.  Everyone does it their own way, and everyone is selfish about it.  And Mom is in Tucson, not Minneapolis.  She didn't want to go.  I don't really know why.  It doesn't matter.  My aunts are providing information daily, but she thinks they are keeping information from her.  Paranoia runs rampant.  Here is the sad truth of sitting death watch: not much happens.  Everyone waits for the final moment, willing it to come, and yet feeling guilty-sick for it.  Some hope they miss it, yet feel honor bound to be there.  Until the loved one passes, there is not much to say or do.   It all seems trivial.  They are dying, and will continue to do so until they are finished.  And while we all hope that they are not alone, I can tell you from years of experience in helping ease the passing of others one crystal truth: everyone dies alone.  This is not something anyone else can do with you.

 I hope I don't have to hear every year from now on that her mother died at Christmas; I'm sure I will.  Don't buy trouble, my husband says.  I'm not buying it.  It's on layaway.  It's coming, I know it.  At forty-six years of age, I know my mother.  She'll do her thing, and it will all be about her.  She didn't even tell us about Grandma until tonight.  Um, it's Tuesday folks.  She posted it on Facebook, looking for support and sympathy.  That's how I found out.  Still hurts.  I shouldn't be surprised, I know that.  It just hurts.  Oh, look, my own issues with my mother.  She gets to grieve her way, I will do mine. 

I will trudge forward.  Grandma will be missed.  She was an invisibly present force in my life.   It is too bad my other siblings didn't get to know her like I did.  We moved when they were little, like 2 and 4.  Does David know?  Did anyone tell him?  I will go on.  It is what she'd want.  If there is a funeral, I will go.


In the mean time, Happy Holidays, whichever you may celebrate.  In our house it is Yule.  Give a squidge to those you love.  Give a hand to those you don't know.  You could make the difference in someone's day, and not even know it.  Hugs.   mikki