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.
