Vigil

I never wrote about sitting with Anna, I don't think. A friend of mine died of multiple cancers almost precisely 4 years ago, and I sat with her for the night less than 24 hours before she died. I got all of the freaking out done then: anxiety over the fact that I couldn't understand what she was saying, shock at her Auschwitz appearance.

I'm watching my Grandma do the same now, just from old age. Mom told me she was finally going. She's been in and out of the hospital for years; I'd resigned myself to thinking that she'd just go randomly one of these times, but no, she's doing the full shut-down procedure. I learned this on Wednesday, I think.

Thursday after work it suddenly occured to me that I was probably expected to feel some emotion about this, and perhaps I should warn the closest people in my support network that there might be emotional fallout. Then it occured to me that sometimes families get together for that sort of thing. Then I was crying on the phone to meowse, still not feeling anything.

So, after some discussion with J, I determined that I don't feel any social obligation to go, but it would be a good chance to see my family during a time that emotional support would be welcome, and it would preclude my wondering later if I should have gone, and (I'm going to hell for this) my writer-brain is interested in it as an observational exercise. How people actually look and act around a death. Given the nature of my writing, this is applicable.

So I booked a flight Thursday night at 10pm and landed in Spokane at noon on Friday. I'm afraid I made my boss uncomfortable. People start stammering when you tell them your Grandma is dying. I told him cheerfully that I recognized the irony of skipping Data Purgatory Day (when we all wear black and work on the old and dying incidents) to go watch my Grandma die instead. I told him I'm back to work on Wednesday dead or alive, and please tell my coworkers the basic facts so they don't think my sister was hit by a car or something.

And now I'm here. I sat with her all day yesterday. She's skinny. All her anatomy is showing, and it's beautiful. When I brush her hair, it's a white and grey cloud, just amazing looking. She doesn't look like my Grandma at all (Grandma had a very full face), but the woman that she looks like is remarkable, with fine bone structure and a nice smile.

There are flushed patches on her cheeks and temples. Her lips are bright pink. I can see all the bones and tendons in her hands. When she sits up (with full assist), her feet instantly turn a dark red. That thing in movies that vampires do when you kill them, the sudden withering to a desert mummy? It's not a movie thing. She's doing it in slow motion.

And somehow it's extraordinarily beautiful.

( Conversations with the dying. )

It's strange seeing all my consent training play out here. "Do you want your drugs? You don't have to take them, but they might help your stomach."

She keeps picking at her oxygen. "I'll take that off if you want, but it's more uncomfortable for you to breathe if I take it off. Do you want me to take it off? Oop, you've pulled it out there. That'll make it harder to breathe. Do you want me to put it back in?" Slow nod. "Okay, here we go."

Over and over. Another sip of water. Another long quiet. I read my book. I'm glad I'm here.