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9:00 p.m. - 09/07/03
all night long he sings.
As usual, I want to write every detail of every day I've missed, and considering the amount of days that have gone undocumented, not to mention the overwhelming events which saturated them, that's pretty much an impossible task. But maybe if I start with the understanding that I just want to remember as much as I can right now and I'll remember the rest at later times, when the sudden onset of memory will comfort me immensely, I can start to let some of it out. So much has stayed inside, not writing, and not really talking to the doc. I had an appointment Thursday to replace one I cancelled Tuesday, but I was too caught up in all that was happening to examine or communicate any of it, and he's too competant a doctor to push me at such an unsteady time. I have another appointment tomorrow, which will probably be more in keeping with our normal scheme. I'm regathering my strength, slowly, though I still need (justifiably) quite a bit of gentleness and rest. There's no need to say it's been difficult. Death, I think, implies difficulty...and difficulty is far too simple a word for what we face. We who stay here, in our mortal world, I mean...

So, let's see. Part 1: State of Emergency

Mom, Inge, and I are on the road back from the bookstore where her art is currently showing, when her cell rings with an urgent call from my Uncle Jim. (Seconds later we'll get another urgent call from another Uncle Jim. I have three such uncles.) My grandmother, we learn, is in the hospital. My mom's mom, in the same hospital she was in the Spring before I went to Rogers, the same hospital we are about to pass as we drive toward the movie theater near our apartment (with plans to see Whale Rider.) St. Mary's, which gets points for an obvious reason. We're told that Grandma has pneumonia, that they've been trying to get a hold of us for awhile, that she's currently in emergency but will be moving to ICU. Mom says, "Change of plans?" and Inge and I nod. This drill is familiar to me, which means that the fear shutting my mouth off is fairly mild. Somehow all the years of sickness, all the years of hospitalizations and the fear that coincided with them, have lessened that same fear. I shut off a bit, automatically, but I fear the worst out of habit, and out of habit, too, I believe this is routine. I want to believe.

We park in the garage just next to the hospital - it's Sunday, so there's no charge - and we hurry into one elevator, then another, pushing ourselves toward a front desk that can point us in the right direction. In the lobby outside emergency, not a single familiar face or form is to be found - entirely outlandish considering the size of my mom's family - and we wonder if perhaps my grandma has already been moved. We're waiting for the receptionist to tell us when my aunt, Beth, appears and says that no, her mom is still in emergency. Beth asks if Mom wants to see Grandma, and Mom says of course, so Beth - in pure Maiden-Lastname fashion - slides her finger down the side of the door to trigger the electrical eye, opening the door and allowing them to sneak inside. Inge and I wait around; Beth comes back out and sits by herself in a corner, looking so much like her child-self that I can imagine her young in a time before I was born. I go to sit with her, which interferes with the honesty of her expression. She's not comfortable being upset around me, and she's not capable of being anything else. She acts a good game, but her energy and her effort give her away.

Eventually, Mom gets back and asks if I would like to see Grandma. I nod vigorously, hesitating only at the rule-breaking involved, which I counter by tagging a quick "if it's ok" after the nod. We slid like spies into the emergency unit and entered the tiny room where Grandma lay on the familiar bed with the familiar white blanket covering her frail, familiar form. Janet (that's "Jeanette" - the aunt who takes care of my grandma and my aunt with Down Syndrome) greeted us, and I walked up to the side of Grandma's bed. Tubes were tied to her hands again, and her nose and mouth were covered with a plastic mask that pushed puffs of air into her system, making it difficult for her to speak, and for us to understand what she said. Still, I felt entirely free. The presence of my aunt and my mom, my own shyness and uncertainty, the stakes in the situation, which had restrained me so severely in the spring two years ago, all disappeared temporarily, and I bent in to take my grandma's hand in mine, and hold on with everything I had. I kissed her hello as well and brushed her fingers with my hair. I told her I was ok and asked how she was, automatically. She squeezed my hand and kept turning, trying to talk to me. Janet did her best to interpret, but the words were hard to catch. Eventually, Janet started a system of yes or no questions that could be answered solely with a shake of the head. My aunt Joan and my uncle Tom both came in at different points. Janet mentioned to Joan that Grandma's name, on the board in emergency, had the designation "SOB" next to it, and they wondered what that was about. Tom found this hilarious. Eventually, Janet - entirely calm and professional - asked a nurse who told her it was shorthand for "shortness of breath." "Good," said Joan. "I was thinking I might have to deck someone." Still, we were glad for the humor.

It wasn't long before they started talking about moving her, and people started to wander toward the hallway. I kissed her again, squeezed her hand, and promised to see her in the next room, her room in ICU. She took my one hand in both of hers, as she has often done, and in doing so communicated every word of safety and love that became gargled when spoken. Earlier, she had asked me when I'd be going back to college, and I told her that I was staying in the Mortal City for awhile, but planned to go to school again soon, an individulized liberal arts school where I could study creative writing and psychology. I would tell this to the doctor later, when he asked about her last words for me. I would tell him these words, the pattern they fulfilled: the consistency with which my grandma threw her own crises onto the back burner to ask how I was doing and what I was up to. Still, I would eventually disclaim it, eventually say, that her last words to me were really what she said with two hands holding my one. Her last clear words to me were the gesture, repeated, and remembered. I will so miss her hands.

Pt. 2: Say Goodnight

When I returned to the waiting room, my mom's family had started to show the strength of their numbers. Inge had moved to a chair a small ways off, but a few of my uncles and aunts, my brother John, and about three of my cousins - including Stewert, were all congregated in a corner. Mom asked John if he wanted to go back; I mentioned thinking they were about to move her. When, a few minutes later, this seemed not to be the case, she and John set off to talk with Grandma. I talked with Inge and waited. Lack of sleep from the night before began to catch up with me, and a migraine threatened. The headache reminded me of the time I'd spent in those same hallways before going to Rogers, with such a similar, horrible headache as a result of my restriction. Determined not to relive that past, I asked to go home just long enough to nap, and since we now live less than ten minutes away, this wish was granted. I thought of the time in the spring before, how I had wanted so desperately to exchange places with my grandma - because they were forcing her to fast in order to take tests, and between her humanity and her diabetes this was really hurting her...I, however, couldn't manage to eat, no matter what I tried. (We'll assume I was trying.) I thought of the tie between us and decided it was a good idea to take care of myself. I could go home and do what she needed to - rest, breathe deeply, be gentle with myself - and I could come back in strong enough form not to mistake the date by nearly two and a half years...

I did feel better for the rest break, and feeling better did help counter the bizarre memories that started to play like film reels as soon as I stepped into the hallways surrounding ICU. I remembered the last time - when I spent most of the waiting period alone in a technically-off-limits waiting area at the end of a long hallway, when the sight of food (and junk food at that!) between my aunts and uncles terrified me, when they first learned of my eating disorder. I gathered my strength, chucked the shyness from my posture, and found my way into the ICU waiting room. All but one of my grandma's children who live in the city (all but three who are still living) were there by that time, as were the same few cousins. I sat for a moment or two on a couch with my cousin Alicia, who was watching the Simpsons episode where Lisa refuses to throw a spelling bee, despite the offer of a college scholarship - an impressively liberal program for her parents to allow (though I found out later that they weren't pleased to see her so into it.)

Many hours passed; she was resting, and I wasn't allowed to see her. I started to fall into a lull, ready for sleep, but unwilling to leave. I was standing away from the group, near a couple of chairs where my mom and Inge huddled, when my Aunt Mary came rushing into the room. "It's not good; it's not good," she said, hurrying by. My mom asked a question but received no answer. We told Inge that Mary was a bit dramatic, but even considering the source, we fell into the stampede of family rushing toward room number 398, the same room she had that spring.

I can't remember now the exact turn for the worse that things were said to have taken. Probably her blood pressure had dropped significantly, or maybe her heart rate. She hadn't responded to something the way that they'd hoped, or she was losing blood they couldn't find. We were told to worry and did to varying degrees. I stood in the hallway as the tribe tried to file in, shocked and not making eye contact. Inge asked, "Have you said goodbye?" and I shook my head and started crying. I wouldn't need to say goodbye. This wasn't happening...

When we had first walked into the hospital, Mom had said how odd the timing was - that lately she'd had a strong feeling this was coming. I mentioned that it felt almost scheduled to me because I've been thinking of it so often. I felt morbid, wondering what sort of perverse person wonders about life after the death of someone they love before the prospect presents itself, but nonetheless, I felt the precognition nagging. I'd thought a lot lately about what I'd say of her afterwards and knew, because of that, what I wanted to say to her before. In the emergency room, my aunt Mary had come in weeping, and told her mother, "I'm sorry for everything I ever did" - a comment at which I balked, mouth hanging open, stunned. How sad. How awful - for your last relational need to be an apology. How awful to discredit every choice you ever made. How sad and how different from my own inclination. I felt the need to thank my grandma, to thank her for everything, for living, especially for the past few years, which I imagined brought her little reward and great pain, and which I had needed so desperately. I had watched her in the hospital mere months before I entered one myself; I had learned with more precision the method of fighting I so admire her for. I had needed her to hang on more than she needed it herself, or so I presumed. And I was so, so grateful to her for hanging on that time.

I thought that time was ending Sunday. This was the goodbye I hadn't said, the gratitude I hadn't expressed; tears streamed from my eyes. I was aware that no one else in the room was crying. I was surrounded by people who had shut off their emotions and people who were acting out in order to avoid expressing them. I stung with that lonely grief. The nurses shooed us from the room eventually, and I stood at the blinds, bawling, until they closed them in our faces. They worried that our presence was agitating her. They worried that she'd see us in the room. They didn't pay much attention to the fact that she gathered breath enough to ask where her family was, where Janet was until much later, when they finally let Janet in. The rest of us waited in the halls and in the lounge, dealing with and avoiding our feelings as necessary. Mom took Inge home, and I sat in the chair outside my grandma's door, listening to the noises of displeased machines and saying nothing. Later, my aunt and godmom, Fran, would come to sit outside the door as well. She'd seem shorter than I remembered her, impish and young-looking, but in a spirited rather than fragile way. She'd mime peeking in the window, ducking down when a nurse came to look, or if Grandma's eyes happened to glance her way. She'd ask for glass cutting tools, talk about removing the window in order to lift the blinds, and stealing the rod that turned them into a curtain through which we could not see. She'd say, "Agitating her! She'll think something's wrong if we're *not* agitating her!" and I would say, "If she'd kicked us out every time we agitated her, we'd never have had a family gathering!" which would make her laugh. Her laugh fed me comfort. Beth sat next to her, still looking anxious and unsettled; they both had means with them to stay the night. Eventually, it became clear that we would not be allowed back into the room, and with Janet's reentry would come a sense of relative stability allowing those of us who felt compelled to go home and sleep to leave. I'd wave goodbye to the handful of relatives planning to spend the night and take the quick ride home. I'd fall asleep, shocked, and not sleep well. Inge's question would echo in my mind.

I'd try for the rest my grandma needed so desperately, wanting again, to do for her what brought pain. I'd note the progress, the positive spin on doing something, and the connection to her that said my sleep could somehow be of service. Mostly I'd pray to what I believe in, grateful for the tragedy that has brought me to believe in something, hoping to express that gratitude while there was still time. I hoped and strained and prayed and worried until I was exhausted, and whether or not I rested, I did sleep.

to be continued-
chord

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