Cathrine

   Such candid reactions for a dark and final situation.

   There's a woman with a beautiful baby sitting across from us in the lobby. Not the mother. Maybe grandma. She's holding the kid in her lap comfortably with her legs crossed. They're playing peek-a-boo. The little girl (I assume?) is calm and peaceful. She's a good girl. A happy little thing covered in pink. Pink onesy, pink and baby blue blanket and a light pink stocking cap with blue and magenta flowers bordering the bottom.

   Adorable.

   The woman looks strikingly like my mother in another ten years or so. Grey, short hairstyle that works for her; it looks quite nice. She has soft features and dark eyes. She wears classy reading glasses and a little makeup but it's not overdone. She's thin and has on blue jeans that are too short at the ankles (avoiding the coming flood I suppose). Her socks are a fading navy blue with dark brown loafers over top. She stays warm in this cold lobby with a black turtleneck sweater under a nylon jacket with subtle red lining. Last but not least, she sports a dental bridge. It doesn't look bad nor is it all that noticeable, I only recognize it because of how much she reminds me of my mom, who also has one. I cringe and grind my teeth as my mind races with thoughts and predictions of when I will have to deal with this. I don't want anyone I love to die but here it comes. F**k.

   Through this waiting, I'm holding conversations with my dad and my uncle. Everything is fairly casual and a bit tilted. None of it is uncomfortable, just strange -- I think we're all in a state of expected shock and having a semi-surreal day. I it might be that we're all just tired.

   My sister walks through the front door and before this moment I haven't seen her in roughly thirteen years. She's got a wonderful smile and an honest hug for me. She looks weary and tied too. This has been the best part of the last forty eight hours for me. It remains that way for a few more.

   Our communication continues but I try to stay as quiet as I usually try am, if not more. I'm not afraid to talk but I tend to dislike many things that come out of my own mouth sometimes; It gets me into trouble. I'm pretty good about thinking before I speak but I also have my purple-toungued moments. Anyway, I take extra care today to watch my mouth for two main reasons: I want my sister to like me and the obviously unique situation calls for a certain amount of sensitivity.

   ...I just found out that one of my relatives was in a white supremacists organization when he was younger. Wow. As disappointing and sad as that is, it's not the unique situation which calls for sensitivity...

   My Grandmother is dying and we are about to pull the plug.

   We go to her. She's already gone in many aspects and I don't really care to see her like this. I do and my eyes drop first to the floor, then to my sister, then to my father and uncle and finally back to her. My pupils run this course over and over again in the same fashion, order and timing each and every round. The only difference is how blurry my sight gets -  with each new lap, the fog moves in thicker and thicker. I'm crying. Yes...I am. So is everyone else. I eventually leave the room.

   The final decisions are agreed upon by her immediate family. Us; me included. Pull everything; let her rest in peace. 

   I'm not sure which is harder to watch: her slowly choking to death; the people I care about and their outward struggle with all of this; the people I care about mourning only on the inside; or my complete lack of control; absolute helplessness. I don't know.

   We all ask for personal moments alone with her before the task at hand is executed.

       Mine:

                                  To You Grandma:

   "I Love you and I will miss you greatly. Thank you for being good to me. I don't know what else to say."

   She says nothing back.

   I don't expect her too.

   I kiss her on the hand and forehead while brushing her hair away from the eyes she can no longer see out of.

   We leave.

   They do it.

 

              She's going...

  ...going...

   The hospital needs the bed so we agree to have her moved back to the assisted living complex. We set up outpatient Hospice care for her there.

                     ...still going...

         ...not quite yet...

   We leave the state to take care of other matters without much of a choice, knowing the last breath will probably be drawn before we get back. None of us take this realization lightly. We call for updates...

   I think God might be questioning himself...no...

 

   She's gone.

                           recorded at 4:03p.m. 03/19/09; five days after the lobby.

Reviews

[LeeLee Ryder]

Thanks for this universal story chocked full of emotions .... Good insightful look at all types of relationships ..
sharing a personal emotional experience is a brave leap, Leap... Thanks for sharing... I'll be writing a short about my Dad's death in the near future. ... You did one of the most important things a writer can do. Inspire!
Thanks again.

[Kathryn]

This piece is really touching, Leap. Your Catherine must have been a beautiful woman. I know that is a difficult decision and I hope that almost a month later you have found some sort of closure. Mortality, no matter who or what age, is difficult to confront. I feel like you did all the humanly, right things- crying, doubting, coping in any way we can, maybe joking or hanging onto family. Brave piece; thanks for sharing.

[1809 Black Plague Decem..]

Intense, there is so much dark secrets, in our families, in ourselves,
Its hard to lose someone when they had so much vitality,
--mishy

[DavidRyan]

It's crazy, man. I was reading this with hesitance. Treading lightly and with caution because I knew it was true and it was going to be full of real emotion. You did an amazing job, man. From drawing the picture of the older woman with the young child, to the trying to make your sister like you in spite of what was going on, and of course to how it all played out in the end. I like the contrast of the two scenarios. The first half, even though shadowed by the reality of the situation, is lighter almost, colorful. And the second half is a rush of emotion and grey and sad and yet just as beautiful as the first part. Well done, man.

[Pen Draggin']

and a big fat tear just rolled down my cheek. thanks for sharing something so personal. i hope you're doing okay, i can't wait to give you a big hug when you get home.