She was too weak to talk. Her breathing was labored; her eyes were mostly closed. I wished the hospice nurse would stop talking. The nurse was probably a nice, kind lady; I knew she was just doing her job. She seemed to be going through some kind of list of what is normal to see at this stage as someone is coming to the end of life. But...I have been around dead and dying people, in many different settings. I knew what to expect, and I knew what I was seeing was normal. I didn’t want to listen to a soothing voice talking about it, but I didn’t want to seem terribly rude, either. I tried to push the nurse’s voice to the background. I leaned over the bed; talked about what the kids and hubby were doing; mentioned that I had had a chiropractor appointment that morning; said “we love you, Grammy.” Kissed her soft, tangled gray hair.
It has been almost a year since my hubby’s Grandpop died. Grammy has missed Grandpop terribly. But we have had one more year with Grammy, for which we are grateful.
My daughter embroidered a pillowcase for Grammy for a Christmas present. This girl of mine is usually a very diligent little girl; Grammy’s Christmas pillowcase was finished by Thanksgiving vacation. We delivered it one day while hubby and my oldest son were hunting. Grammy was delighted. She proclaimed it too pretty to sleep on, even though her great granddaughter assured her that it was meant to sleep on. I don’t think the pillowcase ever did make its way to a pillow. It was given a place of honor and given its due admiration.
My little guy and I took our turn staying with Grammy during some days when the rest were at school and work, over the time when Grammy needed help at home, but was still well enough that I could bring a little boy along. He remembers the ice cream bars she kept in the freezer, and the toy box and marble roller for little people who came to visit. Sometimes he had fun; sometimes it tried his patience when he had to be quiet if she was resting. But during those days with her, we learned to know her better than we had before.
She was reading a book of memories of schooldays and yesteryear, written by a man she had known from childhood. He had included quite a few pictures in the book, and one of the faces in a group of schoolchildren was hers. It was difficult for her to read because of cataracts; she had been scheduled to have them fixed, but was unable to keep the surgery date because of illness. So, that day, I read to her until she was tired. She also told me more of the story--some of the things she remembered that were not included in the book. Then she rested while I read to my little guy, but she seemed to be listening to Peter Rabbit, the Berenstein Bears, and Frances the badger too, even when her eyes were closed.
The days with Grammy were mostly full of ordinary things that happen in the quiet house of an elderly lady--a bit of washing, sweeping, and cooking; a bit of reading, and a few of her tv shows that she enjoyed. I washed and combed her hair for her when she was too weak to do it herself--she was appreciative, but it wasn’t quite like she did it. It was okay, I understood. No one else can ever comb your hair or place your glasses just exactly right.
Though they were ordinary, the days were special too; we knew that this wouldn’t be for long. Her heart was giving out slowly; we knew that soon all the times with Grammy would only be memories.
And i will hold the memories in a special place in my heart. Late this evening, we got the call. It was my mother-in-law’s voice, saying that Grammy had just passed away.
Hubby and I walked into the room and stood by the bed. He stepped behind me and pulled me toward him in a hug. We stood silently. It was her, but just her shell. Her spirit had flown. He gave her a goodbye kiss; I stroked the softness of her gray hair that I would not comb again.
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