Grandma lita Anna
Grandma is almost gone. She was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer back in the fall. She had her bladder removed after the new year, suffered infections and afterwards declined rather rapidly. My mom and I saw her last Saturday. We brought her soup and she sipped on it while I brushed her dentures and combed out her hair. When my mom asked if she was in pain, she relied, "no, not yet." She was coherent but not making a lot of sense when she talked. She told me she had a gold bracelet for Tavi. She told me, "I love you with all of my heart Leah" before we left. That was the last conversation I had with her.
I visited her again on Wednesday morning. She was sleeping comfortably in bed. I washed and soaked her hands with some bath soaps I made, massaged and lotioned her. She stayed sleeping the entire time, unresponsive until I jokingly said, "sleeping in again today grandma huh? You always could." And she nodded at me and slightly opened her eyes.
Now she is at hospice and no longer eating or drinking, morphine every 4 hours. She has shrunken down. She laid in her bed as my family and auntie Jaz and uncle Karl all surrounded her, talking as if nothing has changed. But, we all knew nothing would be the same.
I'm just thinking about all the times I avoided her calls and sent it to voicemail because I knew it would be an hour long talk, and I never had the time: I fee so guilty about it now. Especially because now, more than ever, I wish I could talk to her on the phone for hours. She's shown me how to be forgiving, patient and strong. I hope her suffering ends and she can find her eternal place in heaven with the rest of her family.
I visited her again on Wednesday morning. She was sleeping comfortably in bed. I washed and soaked her hands with some bath soaps I made, massaged and lotioned her. She stayed sleeping the entire time, unresponsive until I jokingly said, "sleeping in again today grandma huh? You always could." And she nodded at me and slightly opened her eyes.
Now she is at hospice and no longer eating or drinking, morphine every 4 hours. She has shrunken down. She laid in her bed as my family and auntie Jaz and uncle Karl all surrounded her, talking as if nothing has changed. But, we all knew nothing would be the same.
I'm just thinking about all the times I avoided her calls and sent it to voicemail because I knew it would be an hour long talk, and I never had the time: I fee so guilty about it now. Especially because now, more than ever, I wish I could talk to her on the phone for hours. She's shown me how to be forgiving, patient and strong. I hope her suffering ends and she can find her eternal place in heaven with the rest of her family.