I just discovered that I can have a widget for blogger posting, and that is the coolest thing ever, so I think I might actually start using ole blogspot more. The theme of this blog is supposedly what I'm really thinking, deep and theological or not, so in keeping with that theme...
My grandmother is in the hospital. I sat with her for 6 hours yesterday. She is 92, frail, falling apart. She has been hallucinating and puking for about a week now, non-stop. The hallucinations are always funny, one of God's little blessings, as they say. They're not as funny to her, probably. She has been hoping to die for years now, not because she has some chronic disease or is miserable with life. Just because she's in her 90's. She's had to watch all of her friends die, one by one. Her bones, joints, insides, are all old, achy. Also, I can't but imagine that 92 years of anything would start to get a little monotonous. We have all been hoping for her that she would get to die soon, because we know she's miserable. Not that any of us are too fond of the prospect of her dying. I can't really imagine the world without Grandma Edna. She is my last living grandparent, and has always been my favorite. Hilarious, strong, constant, full of fascinating secrets. There is a certain way Whitsons look at life, and she is the anchor for it. But maybe it's time.
So when I heard she was in the hospital, I wanted to feel relieved. This is what we've been waiting for. But Christmas time? Shit. This is already our first Christmas without Mom, and if Grandma Edna ends up dying over Christmas, holidays will turn into that time you always dread, because it always reminds you of who's not around anymore. I am determined to never let holidays be that way for me. Maybe for a moment, as we say the blessing over the food or right before we tear into our presents, just stop and remember how our numbers have dwindled, but Christmas and Thanksgiving joy are not things I want to give up. Grandma Edna told my Aunt Dorothy that she didn't want to die at Christmas time, but if this was her window, then she was ready to go. Looks like she won't be so lucky, though. The puking (and apparently, the hallucinations) stopped the night before I sat with her. Now, she's just in horrible pain, but nothing fatal. Well, it was never really fatal, but we were hoping.
Sitting with her in the hospital, I had the strangest nostalgia for sitting with Mom in the hospital. Hearing the blood pressure machine beep made me miss Mom's persistently beeping blood pressure machine. Seeing the nurses roll her over to change her diapers and sheets made me feel the shame and humiliation of Mom's having to wear diapers, of having someone else clean you up down there, her constant confusion as to what was happening to her, and it reminded me of how we all marveled that our nurse, Cheryl, could change the sheets on a bed without making Mom get up. We thought Cheryl was a genius, but nurses everywhere can do that. When we turned the lights down for Grandma Edna to get some sleep, the sunlight streamed in the room on that shining white hospital bed, and it reminded me of sitting with Mom at home, her all dressed in white, reeking of oils and lotions, so soft and clean, the sunlight streaming in behind her. Somehow, her nurses were able to make that living room a place of peace and comfort, and I missed sitting with her in that place. It's not the place, it's her I miss, of course. My mother was so many different people over the years, and sitting with Grandma Edna made me miss the sick Mom, the incoherent, bed-ridden, withering Mom. There is a certain satisfaction that comes from missing her, from tapping into the connection that only we shared, and maybe I should move on, and maybe I have, but it feels like I'm honoring her when I miss her. I don't have her, and I can't care for her, but I can care for Grandma Edna, and that's what I'll do.
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