Bizarre weather.
On the way to my grandmother’s we drove 11 hours (it’s usually a six-hour drive; we had to slow w-a-y down) through blizzards. Cars sliding off the roads, off the sides of the mountain we were climbing. Not ours. We made it okay after hours of white knuckles gripping the steering wheel.
Today– or, more accurately, tonight– we are back home, and there are thunderstorms. Lightning. The ocean was steaming as we crossed it. The weather can’t decide.
Grandma seems to be struggling in the same sort of way. She can’t decide. She’s facing death. Fighting, fighting. She doesn’t want to go. She wants to make sure that we’re all okay– wants to be sure that the huge brood of brothers, sisters, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces, nephews, and stragglers, the huge family that she has loved for the past 83 years, is well taken care of. We sat at her bedside- my father holding her hand, me holding his. She greeted us when we came in. Asked how the babies are doing. To her, “babies” signifies anyone under 40 years of age, but we knew she meant my sister’s children, my brother’s children. She asked me where Robbie was; I told her he was at her place, keeping my uncle company. “Good,” she said. “He’d be lonely in that house, without anyone”. He will be lonely– he’s in his fifties and has never lived away from home. He has been ‘taking care of’ Grandma since Papa died — although I suspect the reality is that she’s been taking care of him. She worries for him. What will he do without her?
She slept. Woke, with a start, gripped my father’s hand, and said “The kids are all good, are they?” “Yes, Ma, they’re good. Liam’s gone back to school today.” “Oh, well, that’s good. He’s just beautiful”. She went back to sleep. Liam is my youngest cousin. He’s seven now. A couple of years ago, you might remember, his father, my aunt’s husband, died suddenly and unexpectedly. My aunt and her son moved back in to Grandma’s house for six months until they found a new home. Their new house is across the street from grandma’s. They’re at her house more than at their own. He loves her. She’s constantly singing to him, joking with him. “Well, Liam, I guess I’ll go up to the tavern tonight and find a boyfriend”. “Gran, I’ll dance with you! You don’t need them!” “You’re right, kiddo!”.
Dad went to get a coffee and to speak with the nurses. Grandma asked me for a drink of water. After a couple of sips (she hasn’t been eating– she’ll take a couple of spoonfuls of broth, but it comes back up again) she pushed the straw away, took my hand, and looked at me very seriously. As if she was taking stock. Her eyes are bright blue, like my father’s. “Robbie’s a good man,” she said. A statement, and a question. I nodded. “And he makes you happy.” “Oh, very happy!” “Well, that’s good then. He’ll be a good father. You’ll be a good mother.” I didn’t answer, because she’d gone back to sleep. I let go of her hand– her skin is so thin now, she bruises if you barely touch her– but she held on to mine for another few minutes. Dad came back in and we sat quietly, listening to her breathing. She’s had lung problems for years and she has pneumonia now. Her breath was raspy, but strong. The nurses came in then, to take her for x-rays. Another aunt and uncle came in, and since she can only have two visitors at once, we left.
Over the next couple of days (I came down with a cold so I couldn’t go back into the hospital) they brought home stories of how she was doing. Things she was saying. Stories about my grandfather. About how she misses him. And always, always, about how she wants to be assured that everyone is alright. She is in a great deal of pain. They drained a litre of liquid from her lungs yesterday. Her blood pressure went way down. Came back up. Back down.
My mother, Rob and I came back to PEI today. Rob and I both have to work on Monday, and my mother needed to get home as well, she has doctors’ appointments and grandchildren to babysit. My father stayed– grandma had asked him to stay. She doesn’t want to be alone. She had been fine up until yesterday. There would be someone with her during the day, but at night she would sleep. Now she wants someone with her 24 hours a day. They’re taking shifts. Today she had six of her seven kids come into her room, along with the doctor, to make sure that her wishes (Do Not Resuscitate) were well known.
This afternoon they took her off all her medications, aside from pain meds. They weren’t helping her; in fact one nurse had been giving her the wrong medications for a few days. When we got home and spoke to dad, he said that she’d had a really bad day, that the doctors are saying she might last until Easter, or she might go in two hours.
Honestly? I think that it will be when she DECIDES to go. When she is satisfied that everyone will be okay without her.
