Back
...and it feels like I've been gone for ever.
We arrived last Wednesday week. My grandmother was sleeping a lot, and was getting confused in the way that old people do, though she knew who we were. In fact, although no one could really raise a smile or any sign of pleasure or happiness from her, her face would light up when looked at Daisy. Daisy would smile, and my grandmother would smile back. She said to me on Saturday, "She's a little sweetheart. Isn't she a little sweetheart?" I would sit with her when she was awake, I'd stroke her hands and her face, I'd try to make her comfortable - she would tell me her back hurt and I'd get her a tablet, I'd pull down her blanket or turn up the heating. I'd hold her hand when I sat with her. After the first time, she put her hand up for me to hold whenever I sat with her, even though she didn't seem to be aware of lots of other things. She knew I was there - she called for me when she woke up and was on her own. She did the same thing to my uncle once he arrived. We told her he was coming on Friday. And she'd known that we were coming, too. So i believe what her nure said, and what everyone else said - that she'd waited for us.
On Sunday she slept most of the day. I don't even remember her being awake before we went out to Sunday lunch. But she'd been awake a lot at night - her night carer, Barbara, had told me she wasn't sleeping well at all at night. She'd pretty much lost track of the difference between day and night, you see, but her lunchtime carer woke her and gave her lunch. We got back from lunch and she was sound asleep - she slept through the afternoon and I was a bit worried when Barbara arrived on the night - I said she'd slept a lot and should we be concerned? She took one look at her colour and said "Yes..." I said I'd call her medical team, and my uncle and Barbara tried to wake her, without success. Barbara told me to call 911. She went into cardiac arrest at some point, either when the emergency services were there or before, I don't know. My mother then arrived, and we collectively were happy for the paramedics not to try and revive her.
She died knowing that we were there, and knowing that she was loved. Barbara was a wonderful person who treated her with the kindness and respect that she deserved, and it makes me happy to know that she was given such care in her final months.
Nevertheless, it's been awful. I know she's at peace and no longer in pain and discomfort, but we were very close. I have lived with her periodically throughout my life and it felt like losing a parent. It seemed absolutely right that I was there. That I helped to plan her funeral and chooose the clothes we buried her in. That I did the eulogy at her funeral and put together the collage of photographs that was displayed at the funeral. That I coordinated the pallbearers and generally was there for her - because I hate to think what a disorganised, impersonal mess the whole thing would've been had it been left to my uncle and my mother, who are simply too passive sometimes.
My grandmother's house has been home to me for years. After my uncle went back to NY on Friday, Daisy and I spent friday night in the house on our own. That was my real goodbye - not at the funeral, where you have to detatch yourself to some extent in order to just get through it for the rest of the family, nor earlier in the week which was full of arrangements and legal and insurance stuff. Just that last night, knowing it was the last night I would spend in her house, and knowing she was gone, was very, very hard.
My family rallied around, expressing most of their caring through food, and making sure that Daisy still had a proper holiday, being taken trick or treating and on all sorts of outings, to the cinema, out shopping (she got both the Converse hightops and loads of the Paul Frank stuff she wanted!) - but that's my family for you. People rally round and look after each other, which is what it's all about, in the end.
We arrived last Wednesday week. My grandmother was sleeping a lot, and was getting confused in the way that old people do, though she knew who we were. In fact, although no one could really raise a smile or any sign of pleasure or happiness from her, her face would light up when looked at Daisy. Daisy would smile, and my grandmother would smile back. She said to me on Saturday, "She's a little sweetheart. Isn't she a little sweetheart?" I would sit with her when she was awake, I'd stroke her hands and her face, I'd try to make her comfortable - she would tell me her back hurt and I'd get her a tablet, I'd pull down her blanket or turn up the heating. I'd hold her hand when I sat with her. After the first time, she put her hand up for me to hold whenever I sat with her, even though she didn't seem to be aware of lots of other things. She knew I was there - she called for me when she woke up and was on her own. She did the same thing to my uncle once he arrived. We told her he was coming on Friday. And she'd known that we were coming, too. So i believe what her nure said, and what everyone else said - that she'd waited for us.
On Sunday she slept most of the day. I don't even remember her being awake before we went out to Sunday lunch. But she'd been awake a lot at night - her night carer, Barbara, had told me she wasn't sleeping well at all at night. She'd pretty much lost track of the difference between day and night, you see, but her lunchtime carer woke her and gave her lunch. We got back from lunch and she was sound asleep - she slept through the afternoon and I was a bit worried when Barbara arrived on the night - I said she'd slept a lot and should we be concerned? She took one look at her colour and said "Yes..." I said I'd call her medical team, and my uncle and Barbara tried to wake her, without success. Barbara told me to call 911. She went into cardiac arrest at some point, either when the emergency services were there or before, I don't know. My mother then arrived, and we collectively were happy for the paramedics not to try and revive her.
She died knowing that we were there, and knowing that she was loved. Barbara was a wonderful person who treated her with the kindness and respect that she deserved, and it makes me happy to know that she was given such care in her final months.
Nevertheless, it's been awful. I know she's at peace and no longer in pain and discomfort, but we were very close. I have lived with her periodically throughout my life and it felt like losing a parent. It seemed absolutely right that I was there. That I helped to plan her funeral and chooose the clothes we buried her in. That I did the eulogy at her funeral and put together the collage of photographs that was displayed at the funeral. That I coordinated the pallbearers and generally was there for her - because I hate to think what a disorganised, impersonal mess the whole thing would've been had it been left to my uncle and my mother, who are simply too passive sometimes.
My grandmother's house has been home to me for years. After my uncle went back to NY on Friday, Daisy and I spent friday night in the house on our own. That was my real goodbye - not at the funeral, where you have to detatch yourself to some extent in order to just get through it for the rest of the family, nor earlier in the week which was full of arrangements and legal and insurance stuff. Just that last night, knowing it was the last night I would spend in her house, and knowing she was gone, was very, very hard.
My family rallied around, expressing most of their caring through food, and making sure that Daisy still had a proper holiday, being taken trick or treating and on all sorts of outings, to the cinema, out shopping (she got both the Converse hightops and loads of the Paul Frank stuff she wanted!) - but that's my family for you. People rally round and look after each other, which is what it's all about, in the end.