Continues

I haven’t blogged nearly as much as I wanted. I bought a new domain name to set up a memorial site for my grandmother. Of course, I have yet to do anything with it. 

Life post-Gram is difficult. I won’t lie. It seems more difficult now because there’s an expectation that all is OK again. Not sure if that expectation is mine or from those around me. Maybe both. I do what I must with work and friends. So many times, I don’t want to be around people. But I tell myself to just go. Just go and hang out with them and you’ll feel more social and fun. And of course, I do feel so much better.

So even though I’m not playing kball this season, I usually meet up with people on Thursday nights after the games. This past Thursday, I decided to stay home. I knew I’d spend a lot of money on Saturday in Annapolis, and it seemed like a good night to skip out.

I stayed home; J had a stroke.

I immediately went to an optimistic place. It’s not that serious. He’ll be OK. This is just a minor issue. But it’s not. He’s still in the hospital and it’s so sad. And even though I try to stay positive, I can only recall how hope-filled I felt regarding my grandmother. And how wrong I was. And how much it sucked to feel positive and then to get shot down. But I don’t want to believe that this is going to have a bad outcome either. I can’t … I just can’t imagine. I don’t know what to do.

Waiting to say good bye

It’s 4:30 p.m. My grandmother was extubated at 12:30. She’s been breathing on her own her four hours with only the help of oyxgen and a lot of morphine. We are all a little surprised because we antcipated that she’d die a lot faster. She looks as wonderful as ever–probably even more so than I’ve seen her from weeks ago when she struggled to do her physical therapy in rehab.

I’ve said a lot of good byes, I love yous, thank yous to her in the past few days. I’m sitting next to her bed, as my grandfather, uncle and other relatives circle around her. We are hoping a hospice bed opens up soon, but I’m not sure that she’ll make it. My grandfather is holding up as well as can be expected. We are all so numb and baffled. No doubt, going through the stages of grief.

Her pastor came in, anointed her with oil and gave communion. He also comforted us, helping us to understand what’s going on. It was fantastic of him. He seemed sad too–which makes sense. But you’d think after doing this so many times that he’d be detached.

The air pumped into the water bottle that goes into her oxygen tube makes a bubbling brook sound. It’s very calming–like a waterfall machine sitting on your living room coffee table.

I have cried much. I can’t believe the time is near. I will miss her deeply. I will miss the opportunities and stories we won’t be able to share in the future. But I treasure the life that we’ve shared together, and I am grateful for all the times that she’d been near me. Her guidance, her love and her encouragement have made my life fantastic.

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Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

The waiting lounge here at the big city hospital is actually kinda nice. There’s lots of seating, two large screen, plasma (LCD?) televisions, comfy chairs–including some reclining chairs, vending machines, electrical outlets for computers and cell phones, up-to-date magazines, WiFi, and best of all, pillows.

You see the same family members and friends sit here daily. I’d imagine that it would be an easy place to meet new people, talking about what is ailing your family member and how they are doing. But no one really talks to each other. We read, watch TV, nap, talk on our cell phones. The time in the waiting lounge goes by very fast in between visiting times. It’s 90 minutes or two hours. But between the talking, the email checking, the napping–before you know it, it’s time to go back and try to comfort.

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Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

The waiting lounge here at the big city hospital is actually kinda nice. There’s lots of seating, two large screen, plasma (LCD?) televisions, comfy chairs–including some reclining chairs, vending machines, electrical outlets for computers and cell phones, up-to-date magazines, WiFi, and best of all, pillows.

You see the same family members and friends sit here daily. I’d imagine that it would be an easy place to meet new people, talking about what is ailing your family member and how they are doing. But no one really talks to each other. We read, watch TV, nap, talk on our cell phones. The time in the waiting lounge goes by very fast in between visiting times. It’s 90 minutes or two hours. But between the talking, the email checking, the napping–before you know it, it’s time to go back and try to comfort.

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Suffering

Gram knows. We all know. There’s no way to turn back this illness or to make it better. Most times, the lungs are the last area to deteriorate. My grandmother has always been special, and this distinction continues on with her during this monster of a disease. It’s attacked the lungs first and with a vengenence. For her to come home, she will need a trach. She can’t go for more than 5 minutes without the BiPAP.

We’re pretty sure that Gram wouldn’t want live this way, even with her brain still strong and capable.

It hurts. A lot. It’s so devastating. It’s so sad. I want to find ways to be positive and hopeful. I want to dwell on the happy times and the 30-some years that she’s been in my life. But it’s really, really, really difficult.

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Suffering

Gram knows. We all know. There’s no way to turn back this illness or to make it better. Most times, the lungs are the last area to deteriorate. My grandmother has always been special, and this distinction continues on with her during this monster of a disease. It’s attacked the lungs first and with a vengenence. For her to come home, she will need a trach. She can’t go for more than 5 minutes without the BiPAP.

We’re pretty sure that Gram wouldn’t want live this way, even with her brain still strong and capable.

It hurts. A lot. It’s so devastating. It’s so sad. I want to find ways to be positive and hopeful. I want to dwell on the happy times and the 30-some years that she’s been in my life. But it’s really, really, really difficult.

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Suffering

Gram knows. We all know. There’s no way to turn back this illness or to make it better. Most times, the lungs are the last area to deteriorate. My grandmother has always been special, and this distinction continues on with her during this monster of a disease. It’s attacked the lungs first and with a vengenence. For her to come home, she will need a trach. She can’t go for more than 5 minutes without the BiPAP.

We’re pretty sure that Gram wouldn’t want live this way, even with her brain still strong and capable.

It hurts. A lot. It’s so devastating. It’s so sad. I want to find ways to be positive and hopeful. I want to dwell on the happy times and the 30-some years that she’s been in my life. But it’s really, really, really difficult.

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Suffering

Gram knows. We all know. There’s no way to turn back this illness or to make it better. Most times, the lungs are the last area to deteriorate. My grandmother has always been special, and this distinction continues on with her during this monster of a disease. It’s attacked the lungs first and with a vengenence. For her to come home, she will need a trach. She can’t go for more than 5 minutes without the BiPAP.

We’re pretty sure that Gram wouldn’t want live this way, even with her brain still strong and capable.

It hurts. A lot. It’s so devastating. It’s so sad. I want to find ways to be positive and hopeful. I want to dwell on the happy times and the 30-some years that she’s been in my life. But it’s really, really, really difficult.

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Second opinions

It’s amazing what a difference two days and a change of venue makes. My grandmother finally opened her eyes yesterday afternoon while we were visiting.

“Gram, we know you can open them. We can see that you’re trying. It’s OK if you can’t right now. But we can’t wait to see them again.”

And after some time, and after minutes of twitching eyelids and hand squeezing, her eyes slowly opened. They didn’t appear filled with fear or confusion. Calm and patient. She is still intubated and desparately wanted it removed, but there were tests to be done. Last night, she tried to write a message to my uncle. It may be have something so important, he says. And it’s true, it probably was. But important to her could’ve been “I love you.” Or “Drive home safely.” “Tell Matt I said hello.” She made a big effort to whisper a very important message to us on Tuesday. What was it? Tell her granddaughter happy birthday.

I’m still furious about her care at the local hospital. I’m just absolutely in disbelief at how quickly they wanted to write her off. At the big hospital, there’s a lot more hope and concern about finding the cause.

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Life and stuff

My grandmother is not doing well. She’s been weak for about a year. The initial diagnosis is ALS. But that doesn’t really make sense since she’s older than the onset of typical cases.

I’m so terribly sad and scared.

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