losing grandma, part 1

I was awake at 3 a.m. and beyond this morning.  I was sick, I've got a cold and an ear infection.  First thing this morning I rescheduled the cats' vet appointment so I could stay home all day and just be sick in bed.  (And I called the doctor about my ear.)  Moments later, my mom called me.  She said she had "bad news" and I knew it was death but I thought it was the dog or cat or some distant relative (last summer, for instance, one of my second cousins went on a "vision quest" and was found dead under a tree three weeks later with an uneaten banana and a bottle of water, and a few years ago my mom's cousin was a Memorial Day weekend motorcycle fatality statistic).
But no, not so distant. Apparently around 3:30 (as I was lying awake plotting my sick day), my mom was woken up by "a god-awful noise" coming from my grandmother's room, like a rattling gasping for breath.  When she went in, my grandmother was unresponsive with fixed eyes.  She called 911 and the fire department intubated (sp?) her and brought her to the hospital.
Grandma had a "massive stroke"--the one the doctors had been warning her would happen if she didn't take her blood pressure medicine.  Of course she always laughed them off and went right on taking 1/4 of a pill instead of whatever her real dosage was.  She'd had a minor stroke a while back and my mom called me out of work and it ended up being nothing that serious (that was when she moved in with my mom, 4 1/2 years ago, right before my dad died).
But this one, yeah, this is it.  My mom told me right out at 8 this morning "she's not going to make it this time."  She's on a respirator.  If the EMTs hadn't put the tube in her she'd be dead already.  They did a  scan of her brain and it's massive bleeding everywhere (like my dad after he hit his head) no chance of recovery. I don't want a vegetable for a grandma.  I had one for a dad and I didn't like it one bit.
I called the funeral home and had them pull the paperwork for my grandma's prepaid funeral (from 1987 when her husband died)--why my mom couldn't think to do that, I don't know, but they appreciated the heads-up.  I don't know if my mom has called my grandma's brother or sister-in-law.  I told my godmother (my grandma's niece).
I just never know what to do while in death limbo.  Call everyone and say "she's gonna die" and then tomorrow or the next day call and say "she died"?  Wait until she's dead?  What if her brother wants to come from California to say goodbye?  What about the few friends she has left?  I'm not good with complex thinking when I'm sick with some kind of hideous flu.  I suppose I have to write the obituary too.  It's all I can do to compose this post, obit will have to wait.
My mom has grandma on a DNR, obviously--she's 93 (her 94th birthday is this weekend; the picture above is from last year's party).  But right now the ventilator is keeping her alive.  Her heart is strong and healthy but the doctors don't know if she'll keep breathing without the tubes or just die.  So that's what I get to do this afternoon, go and pull the plug on my grandma and watch her die. 
Happy Valentine's day to my family, right?  My dad died on Thanksgiving, and my grandpa, great grandpa and great grandma all died within days of my birthday.  My  husband's grandmas both died around his birthday (one actually ON the day).  So why not ruin Valentine's day with a death anniversary too? 
I need to think more positively, but right now I can't.  The doctors say she's not in pain.  She's simply  not there anymore.  Hopefully she won't linger and suffer like my dad did (and he suffered--there was no lying to me and saying "he's not in pain" even though he was a vegetable; he moaned and thrashed like an animal in a trap).  I didn't get to say goodbye to her properly but really, that's rare.  When someone is hanging on forever like my dad, you never know when the last time will be to say it, and the flip side is the immediate and quick death with no time for the last time.  If that makes any sense.  She lived to be, essentially, 94.  She had no dementia, no cancer, no ill-health other than arthritis and high blood pressure.  She could walk (slowly) and talk (just fine) until the end. Most people would be happy with that kind of life.
Sunday night, in fact, she was in a really good mood.  We were playing a word game and my mom took a spot where my grandmother wanted to put her word and my grandma was sassing her and we were all laughing.  We were planning on where to take her for her birthday (Red Lobster, for lunch, on Friday).  Now it's more likely that on Friday we'll be eating an after-funeral meal instead.
Bye, Grandma.  I love you.  I'll miss you.  Say hi to Dad & Grandpa for me when you get to the Elsewhere Bar.

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A place to say goodbye, or hello

I was stuck at a red light the other day, right next to a cemetery, and several of the graves had little American flags on them.  I started to wonder if my dad was eligible for a flag.  He got a medical discharge out of the Air Force.  I know he wasn't in long enough to get any benefits.  Does a flag count as a benefit?
But it's a moot question, cuz my dad doesn't have a grave.
I guess when I decided to cremate him I wasn't thinking about that.  When I worked around the corner from the cemetery where my grandpa is buried, I used to get a spicy chicken sandwich from Wendy's and then sit on his grave and eat it.  Then I'd go back to work and say that I had lunch with my grandfather.  It didn't make me feel CLOSER to him (although I physically was), it just seemed like the right thing to do.  I only worked there a couple of months and I haven't been back to "visit" my grandpa since.  I have to wonder what state his gravestone is, since I don't think my mom's been there to clean around it or plant flowers and obviously my grandma hasn't driven anywhere in 4 years.
Of course, visiting my father is easy.  His ashes are at my mom's.  She'd probably let me borrow them if I asked.  I guess technically every time I eat at mom's, I'm having dinner with dad like I had lunch with grandpa--he's only on the other side of the wall from the dining room.
But it's weird not to have a GRAVE, with that ponderous gray stone that distills a life into 10 words or less (name, dates, maybe a "beloved father and husband" inscription).  The ceremony at the grave site, well those are always terrible and I'm not sad we didn't have one (I'd have been a lot sadder if we had, if you know what I mean).  Everyone I know who died has a grave.  Except my dad.   Does that mean I don't love him?  I could spend all my money and buy a plot and pay a backhoe to excavate a hole and put his pretty green stone box underground and put up a big ugly gray stone to tell everywhere were the pretty box is hidden.  That seems silly.  My mom wants the box buried with her.  Fine with me, but I'm keeping a spoonful or two of dad so he can be in the coral reef with me.  Because I know how much my dad loved nature and he'd think being a coral reef was awesome.  And although no one would ever actually do it for me, I think it's pretty cool that to visit a coral reef grave, you have to scuba dive.  "Going to visit my dad, gotta get my tanks filled." The big blue sea, the immense green ocean, becomes your gray stone.

Then again, whether you believe in life after death, or the Elsewhere Bar, or that life is a candle that just gets snuffed out at the end, everlasting life is really when people who are still alive remember you.  If you're a fan of Terry Pratchett, the British author whose battle with Alzheimer's started exactly when my dad's ended, you might have read his book Small Gods (it's pretty stand-alone if you're not a Discworld reader).  It's about a bunch of gods who no one worships anymore, because no one remembers them.  That's what happens eventually to people I guess, no one is alive who remembers you and you fade away.  But I've written all this and as long as Blogger is online, even if I die today, people will read my blog and remember my dad.  And maybe me.  So this blog serves, I guess, as my dad's big gray stone, a place to visit him and say hello.  Because he's here, somewhere. 

The Last Time

This morning I was thinking about two different friends of mine, both facing losing their moms to cancer.  At least they get this holiday season with their moms, and they know it's the last one, is the direction my thoughts went, and I started composing some sort of holiday blog post in the back of my mind.
And when I got home from driving and musing, and logged onto Facebook, I saw to my dismay that one friend's mom had succumbed to her cancer only 2 weeks after her diagnosis.  Last year was their last holiday together and they didn't know it.  Her mom was healthy and fine in mid-November (or thought she was).
You don't know when it will be the last time.  The last time you see someone, talk to them, celebrate a holiday, hoist a pint, laugh or cry or cringe at a movie together.  It is worse when a healthy person gets taken in an accident of course, as there is no warning, but as my friend just found out to her sorrow, a mom can be fine on Thanksgiving and dead of cancer by Christmas.
When my dad got diagnosed, the doctors estimated, based on his age and how far his Alzheimer's had progressed, that he would live approximately 11 years.  How GOOD those years might have been, they didn't say.  Just that he should have made it to about 75 years old.  So at that last Christmas, the one we didn't know was the last, in 2006, we thought we had 8 or 9 more years, when in truth it was less than a year.  
Ironically, every year my mom thinks it's her mother's last Christmas (she's 93 now) and every year Grandma keeps going like the Energizer bunny.  We're almost numb to thinking about her not being here anymore, to the point that when it does happen, we're going to be in total shock.
I guess we all know somewhere deep inside that anyone and anything can be taken from us without warning. And maybe we should live like that, never going away mad or holding a grudge.  Always kissing our loved ones goodbye and telling them they are loved.  But we don't.  We get angry.  We slam doors.  We leave without saying goodbye.  Everyone would like to think they are immortal and so are all their loved ones.

I believe that as long as someone remembers us, our memory is immortal, and our souls hang out in the Elsewhere Bar and do whatever needs to be done in the next life.  But Alzheimer's and other forms of dementia can steal away even that breath of life, taking those memories forever.
I can't offer a solution.  I'm not a god or a doctor, just a person who has lost so much, who grieves to see her friends in similar sorrow.  
Love who you have while you have them, and remember them fondly every day after that.