An unwelcomed end
My grandmother Vivienne died last Friday; succumbing to a weakening body, and a failing heart. She was 86, but it was extraordinary that she had lived this long. For half of my life, she was plagued with health problems that pushed her so near the edge, I lost count of the times that I rushed to a hospital to see her, fearing that it would be the last time. She clutched at life though, in spite of the pain she seemed too taken with this world to leave it and her family behind. Hearing that Grandma was sick began to lose all meaning to me, as it was just assumed that she would once again pull through. She always did.
It was more recently that we began to have to let go, as her mental health followed the course her body had already taken, and dementia took root. While I know there were some difficult times for those who were more directly charged with her care, my grandfather especially, for me she slowly faded from this reality with a gentle grace, needing only a nudge to find her way back to you for a little while. Even as I was asked to repeat the same banal story of my recent life for the fifth time, I knew that she was present with me at the end of each retelling, only to loosen her grip and fall away once more. For me, she had an unselfish joy in the simplest details of my life, and returned my sometimes uncertain affection with simple love. I know that she thought about me all the time, and she assured me that she and Grandpa prayed for me every night together, something I have little doubt is true. Towards the end, she took on a childlike innocence and fascination with everything, marveling for 15 minutes over the shiny case of the Planet Earth DVDs my brother and I bought for her at Christmas, even though she lacked the attention span to watch them.
My grandfather was her primary caregiver for 13 years, as her health weakened following a heart attack. A surprisingly enduring man just a few years younger than her, he cooked healthy meals from scratch, kept the apartment spotless, brought order to her ever changing regimen of pills and cared for her in every other way she needed, even as her dementia pushed him further and further away. After an extended stay in a long-term care facility, he was convinced that she would die there if he didn't intervene, and brought her home - caring for her himself over her final few years. It was during this time she began to forget who he was more often than not, believing he was on orderly sent to care for her, and also believing her husband was long since dead. This was hard on him, especially as his devotion to her kept him isolated from the other people in his life, but he persevered and kept her in the best health he was able. There is no doubt to anyone in the family, nor to any of the medical professionals who knew them that he extended her life for years by sacrificing his own.
There was an inevitable limit to his intervention, and it came at a high price for them both. He fell ill, and for reasons unknown didn't call anyone for help. Instead, he fought through his own illness, getting out of bed to perform his daily tasks until he was physically unable to continue. After too long of a silence, my mom rushed to their house to find them both near death. Once in the hospital, Grandpa was diagnosed with a serious case of pneumonia and Grandma had too many symptoms to count. My grandfather responded quickly to treatment, and within days was on his feet, shaken but improving; but my grandmother had too far to go, and began to slip. Comforted by the morphine, it also weakened her, as did her inability to eat, and she finally succumbed and passed away.
The family rushed to be together to support my grandfather and each other, and began dealing with the loss. I buried myself in work, helping everyone sort and scan hundreds of photos of my grandmother's life, designing the memorial program, building a website for those who couldn't make it to the service. It somehow all seemed totally inadequate as a way of marking her passage from my life, but there was little else that felt like it would do. The memorial service drew a packed house on Tuesday, the room filled with people who loved my grandparents, and it quickly became a reunion as everyone had a story to tell me about Vivienne and Dan, and how special they both were. My grandfather was too weak to say anything during the service, but seemed to gain some strength at the reception as he was at last surrounded by people who cared about him.
The crowds have left, most of the family has returned home, now leaving my grandfather, dad and myself for a few days together in his apartment. He gets healthier every day, but I struggle with the scale of what he's feeling right now. I've had loss and loneliness in my life, but it can't compare with the aftershocks of being alone for the first time in 63 years. Everything seems sharp and new as I watch he and my dad push through the unyielding paperwork and procedure that must follow every death. I watch him explain to yet another stranger on the phone how his wife has died before he quietly asks them what he can do next, and I think how unlikely it is that anyone has a truly good answer to that.
I miss my grandmother a lot, though like the rest of the family, that feeling started years ago. We've all had to deal with the fact that we feel some relief in this passing - the religious ones happy in her moving to a better place, the less religious ones making peace with her escape from pain. We all seem to hope that Grandpa too will get some relief, though I'm holding on to the idea that he can do it while he's still alive. I think everyone wants to see him be rewarded for his faithfulness and care by reclaiming his own life and interests, by picking up the connections he lost to the world outside his home. It is too easy, though, to worry that the loss will have been too great, and that he won't actually like the world without Vivienne enough to stay too long with it. I hope he does, for I am determined to take advantage of the time I have left with him, and I just don't want that time to be over too soon.
For anyone reading this who knew my grandmother, there is a memorial website at http://vivienne.hallams.ca - there are photos of her life (some cool ones of her early years in inter-war Vancouver, and some really awful ones of me) and other content from the memorial service.
It was more recently that we began to have to let go, as her mental health followed the course her body had already taken, and dementia took root. While I know there were some difficult times for those who were more directly charged with her care, my grandfather especially, for me she slowly faded from this reality with a gentle grace, needing only a nudge to find her way back to you for a little while. Even as I was asked to repeat the same banal story of my recent life for the fifth time, I knew that she was present with me at the end of each retelling, only to loosen her grip and fall away once more. For me, she had an unselfish joy in the simplest details of my life, and returned my sometimes uncertain affection with simple love. I know that she thought about me all the time, and she assured me that she and Grandpa prayed for me every night together, something I have little doubt is true. Towards the end, she took on a childlike innocence and fascination with everything, marveling for 15 minutes over the shiny case of the Planet Earth DVDs my brother and I bought for her at Christmas, even though she lacked the attention span to watch them.
My grandfather was her primary caregiver for 13 years, as her health weakened following a heart attack. A surprisingly enduring man just a few years younger than her, he cooked healthy meals from scratch, kept the apartment spotless, brought order to her ever changing regimen of pills and cared for her in every other way she needed, even as her dementia pushed him further and further away. After an extended stay in a long-term care facility, he was convinced that she would die there if he didn't intervene, and brought her home - caring for her himself over her final few years. It was during this time she began to forget who he was more often than not, believing he was on orderly sent to care for her, and also believing her husband was long since dead. This was hard on him, especially as his devotion to her kept him isolated from the other people in his life, but he persevered and kept her in the best health he was able. There is no doubt to anyone in the family, nor to any of the medical professionals who knew them that he extended her life for years by sacrificing his own.
There was an inevitable limit to his intervention, and it came at a high price for them both. He fell ill, and for reasons unknown didn't call anyone for help. Instead, he fought through his own illness, getting out of bed to perform his daily tasks until he was physically unable to continue. After too long of a silence, my mom rushed to their house to find them both near death. Once in the hospital, Grandpa was diagnosed with a serious case of pneumonia and Grandma had too many symptoms to count. My grandfather responded quickly to treatment, and within days was on his feet, shaken but improving; but my grandmother had too far to go, and began to slip. Comforted by the morphine, it also weakened her, as did her inability to eat, and she finally succumbed and passed away.
The family rushed to be together to support my grandfather and each other, and began dealing with the loss. I buried myself in work, helping everyone sort and scan hundreds of photos of my grandmother's life, designing the memorial program, building a website for those who couldn't make it to the service. It somehow all seemed totally inadequate as a way of marking her passage from my life, but there was little else that felt like it would do. The memorial service drew a packed house on Tuesday, the room filled with people who loved my grandparents, and it quickly became a reunion as everyone had a story to tell me about Vivienne and Dan, and how special they both were. My grandfather was too weak to say anything during the service, but seemed to gain some strength at the reception as he was at last surrounded by people who cared about him.
The crowds have left, most of the family has returned home, now leaving my grandfather, dad and myself for a few days together in his apartment. He gets healthier every day, but I struggle with the scale of what he's feeling right now. I've had loss and loneliness in my life, but it can't compare with the aftershocks of being alone for the first time in 63 years. Everything seems sharp and new as I watch he and my dad push through the unyielding paperwork and procedure that must follow every death. I watch him explain to yet another stranger on the phone how his wife has died before he quietly asks them what he can do next, and I think how unlikely it is that anyone has a truly good answer to that.
I miss my grandmother a lot, though like the rest of the family, that feeling started years ago. We've all had to deal with the fact that we feel some relief in this passing - the religious ones happy in her moving to a better place, the less religious ones making peace with her escape from pain. We all seem to hope that Grandpa too will get some relief, though I'm holding on to the idea that he can do it while he's still alive. I think everyone wants to see him be rewarded for his faithfulness and care by reclaiming his own life and interests, by picking up the connections he lost to the world outside his home. It is too easy, though, to worry that the loss will have been too great, and that he won't actually like the world without Vivienne enough to stay too long with it. I hope he does, for I am determined to take advantage of the time I have left with him, and I just don't want that time to be over too soon.
For anyone reading this who knew my grandmother, there is a memorial website at http://vivienne.hallams.ca - there are photos of her life (some cool ones of her early years in inter-war Vancouver, and some really awful ones of me) and other content from the memorial service.