This day last year I was making the decision whether or not to see my grandma in the hospital before she was going to be taken off the machines keeping her alive. I was at work, deciding what I wanted my last memories of my grandma to be.
I think it’s better in some ways to know when death is going to happen, so that you can prepare yourself. But in other ways, it doesn’t seem to make any difference.
My last memories of my grandma were not at the hospital. I opted not to go. She wasn’t really aware, and I was pregnant and didn’t think that I would be able to handle it well.
I had actually gone to visit my grandma just days earlier, the previous weekend. I am so thankful I did.
But that last visit is not really how I want to remember her either.
Grandma was frail, moved in inches across the carpet. She needed help in the bathroom since she had broken a wrist.
She had a nurse, but the nurse left while we visited. I wasn’t prepared for that. I told Brian that while I was glad I had seen her, I hoped someone would be with me next time.
We had grilled cheese, which seemed to be the only thing she would eat.
We talked for a while: about the baby (which she told others she thought was a girl by the way I was carrying). We talked about family (always some drama). We talked about her housekeeper (who could never do a good enough job), her nurses (who she loved much more than I thought she would).
I told her before I left that she needed to be careful and let that wrist heal so she could hold my baby.