Death Becomes Her

Gramma died over two weeks ago on February 17th. A nurse from Richmond Beach Rehab called on the 14th to tell us that she could hardly breathe and she sounded very frightened. She was trying to contact the doctor on call, who, of course, was unreachable. Mom told her to call the paramedics and we left to see Gramma. When we walked in the door, a fire medic had her leaning forward as she was gasping for air. Her eyes were wide and vacant. They stabilized her the best they could while we waited for an actual ambulance to take her to Northwest Hospital. After about half an hour after he saw Gramma, the doctor said flat out, "I don't expect her to make it through the night." It looked like I was going to lose another grandparent around (or in this case, on) a holiday. She had acute pneumonia. The doctor (or the nurse) said there was no reason why she should've gotten so sick, and the hospital was going to submit a complaint about Richmond Beach. I called my cousin and my mom's best friend who came down. The ER doctor admitted her into Comfort Care. We stayed with her for about 4-5 hours until 12:30 am when we decided to go home to try to get some sleep. They said they'd call if she became worse.

We were back at the hospital around 4:30 am. Luckily the 15th was a holiday so I didn't have class. We just stayed with her and watched. My cousin and mom's friend came by Monday. My mother had to decide what to do with the body when Gramma did die. Normally social workers help with that, but they don't work on holidays. I was mad at her because I thought this is something you were supposed to have planned out ahead of time - what you're going to do with the body. But, maybe most people don't know what crematory they're going to send their loved one's body to, or where you want to send it if the body will be embalmed. My mother went with Neptune. That's probably where I'll send her. I went home by myself Monday afternoon after my cousin arrived and stayed home for about 12 hours. I didn't realize I was gone so long.

I returned to the hospital around 5:30 Tuesday morning. There was a cot and a recliner in the room. The night nurse brought them in for my parents to rest on. A chaplain, or a bereavement counselor, came by later in the morning. Before, mom said that Gramma wanted to start going to church again, and that she did a few times go to this church in Richmond Beach. Maybe they take religious folk there. I was surprised. Gramma was never the religious type. But I suppose when you know you're not far from death and maybe afraid of the unknown, you want to reach out to something to comfort you. Mom told this to the chaplain who thought that we should all put a hand on Gramma and recite the lord's prayer. At this time I was writing Gramma's obituary. Is it wrong to write someone's obituary before they're dead, but you know they will be soon? Like in a matter of hours? I didn't partake in this event. It weirded me out and I wished I had my pentacle to rebel against their Christian religion. Even though much of Christianity is based on Paganism. The chaplain kept trying to get me to open up, but I denied her. I didn't want to talk to some stranger who doesn't know me or my grandmother from Adam. She was wearing a Tree of Life pendant with the branches in a Celtic knot, which I appreciated. She said it was more open to people than if she wore a cross. I can't think of any people I know who would be against the Tree of Life, or hold it in contempt. I said something about the Tree of Life being Pagan, which she stared at me blankly, and then I said something about the Celtic knot, which she immediately jumped on, "Yes! Celtic!" God forbid she wore a Pagan symbol (pun intended).

My parents would leave for a little while to have a cigarette or get something to eat, or get coffee. One of these times when I was with Gramma alone I told her to have a good trip, and to say hi to everyone for me. I started naming the people I know who have passed away, and it seemed like so many. Later, I wrote down the names of all the people who died, and I wrote down 37 names. I told G if she sees Janis Joplin, to tell her I said she rocks. I don't really believe in heaven, or hell. At least the fiery wasteland where all the bad souls are banished to for eternity to rot in torture and pain. Hell on Earth I believe. As day turned into night, I stayed up and read (not very much) and watched. My parents slept for a long time. They had only been home for barely over three hours since we arrived at the hospital about 7:30 Sunday evening. It was now Tuesday night. My dad did go home long enough to shower and change while my mom slept.

I slept for a little while. Well, rested my eyes more like. As long as I could hear Gramma breathing I let my heavy eyelids rest. As soon as I couldn't hear her breathing anymore, I'd look over at her to see if I could see her chest move up and down. I wasn't even aware I was still awake until I couldn't hear her breathe. Carmen slept heavy. She could only sleep if I was there because she knew I'd be watching. She'd be too afraid that Dad would fall into a heavy sleep. Before Gramma went into a home three years ago, I stayed the night one time and stayed up all night with her. Mom wouldn't sleep for 4-5 days at that time because Gramma kept her up all hours of the night. But that night, while Gramma was calling for me all night, my mom slept soundly where normally she'd wake with start at hearing Gramma's voice.

It's really fascinating, and haunting, to watch someone go through that dying process where they transform from their regular self into a phantom of who they were. In the wee hours of Wednesday morning I sat and watched Gramma slowly breathe. She was kept on a nice dosage of morphine the entire time to keep her comfortable; hence "comfort care." I don't know if dying is painful, or if it was her sciatica, but she was in pain. We could hear her moaning sometimes, and the nurse would give her more morphine. As she got closer to death, she started having sleep apnea. By this time I was used to her not breathing for even five minutes. I noticed that in her last few hours, she actually smelled like death. I never smelled it before. It wasn't pungent. It just sort of loomed in the room. At around 4:30 am she stopped breathing again. My parents were both asleep. I looked at her; looked for any signs of life. I waited for about ten minutes. I tried to quietly stand up, but the chair creaked a lot, which woke mom up. She looked at me with wide eyes out of her sleep. I told her I thought Gramma passed away. We looked at her for another couple minutes. I went and got Lynn, the nurse. She listened to Gramma's heart for a few minutes, then looked at us and shook her head. Mom let out a burst of grief and cradled Gramma's head. Dad and I just stood and watched. The three of us went out for a cigarette while they cleaned Gramma up. When we walked back in, mom asked if I wanted a few minutes alone with her, which I acquiesced to. I wanted to see if she smelled like death. I know it's weird. I just didn't want to forget it. They used some sort of cleanser on her so she smelled sweet and clean. I don't quite remember what death smells like anymore. There's nothing to compare it too. It's not like walking by roadkill, that smells rotten. But it is a smell of rot, and musty. A different kind of rot.

Death isn't like anything you see in the movies or on tv. She didn't look peaceful. She looked dead. There was no shudder or sound when her last breath escaped her lips, which only I saw. She just stopped. I didn't see Death lurk nearby, or see some sort of unexplainable shadow in the room. An unexplainable breeze didn't blow through the room. A glowing orb didn't leave her body. People have to concoct such things to make them feel better. Death seems so...finite. You don't want to believe it's the end. That that's all there is. I asked a friend, "Why do people always turn to religion when it comes to death?" Without missing a beat she responded, "Because they're scared shitless." When I looked at Gramma's corpse, there was nothing left. Her eyes were half open and her mouth slightly gaping. Just an empty vessel. Do I really believe that her soul went on, or anyone's soul, to a better place? To a heaven? No. I believe in ghosts though, which seems contradictory. But that's beside the point. If believing in heaven, or something of the sort, makes you feel better, then by all means believe away. I won't refute you. Doesn't hurt anyone. Just don't count on it when death becomes you.

2010 sucks

So this evening I was at my "best" friend's fiance's birthday party. Most of the people were gone, and my friend, her parents, and my parents were sitting together. My friend tells me how much she appreciated my help with the parties and the wedding, and she really needs me, and then she told me she wants her cousin to be her maid-of-honor. For the past five or six months, I believed I was going to be the MOH. She's my best friend. I'm her best friend. I always believed that she would be my MOH and I would be hers, and she would be the godmother of my children and I would be the godmother of hers....things that best friends do. And she still wants me to help her with the wedding. Fuck that. Her cousin lives in Tacoma, about an hour away, so they can't get together all the time to go to wedding expos, pick out invitations, she told me a week ago she wanted me to pick out the bridesmaids dresses. A maid-of-honor is the one who does everything for the bride - plans the bridal shower, bachelorette party, takes care of things that the bride doesn't have to deal with....she told me that it was because her cousin is family. What does that have to do with anything? She told me that she doesn't get to see Sally very much, which I already knew of course, but when they see each other they have a really good time, or some BS like that. And like I said, she still needs my help with the wedding because Sally doesn't know anyone or know Edmonds. She's fucking dreaming. She, my best friend, tells me after five months that she doesn't want me to be her maid-of-honor, but still wants me to do everything that a MOH does? That's Sally's job now. Christina said the title didn't come with any attachments and that we're all equal. Bullshit. I had her fucking wedding planned within a week after she told me in July that she and Jeremy were getting married. Actually more like a day. It took about a week for me to see one of the venues, but I called a lot of others, and caterers, and looked at wedding dresses and bridesmaid dresses online for her, because I knew what she wanted more than she did, which she fully admitted. At the time she didn't know (and I still don't know if she does) what an A-line dress is, or empire, or princess cut. I also looked at rings to suggest to her fiance. And now she's dumping me for her cousin she hardly sees?

And tomorrow I go back to school. I'm a little excited, but mostly not looking forward to it. Where did the past three weeks go? I said at the beginning that I wouldn't get done nearly what I wanted to, and I didn't! I used to set these incredible goals of what I would accomplish during a break, whether a weekend or a few weeks, and never seem to quite get it done. I did get quite a few things done, but not nearly all I wanted to, and I knew I wouldn't. I've been so tired since New Year's. Friday I didn't move from the recliner, recovering from my hangover, yesterday I was still exhausted and actually slept most of the day, and today I was still tired but was able to at least get up. I wished I was more like Christina. No matter how tired she is, how sick she is, how little sleep she got, she still gets up and does what she has to do. In high school when she would come to school on her death bed, I told her that no one really wanted her there so sick, and she needed to give her body a chance to get better, but she was determined that she was going to school. Crazy bitch.

For the last week my gramma's been going downhill. The nurse told mom that she's shutting down, but we don't know how long that will take. From the sound of her condition, I didn't know if she would even make it to new year's. Yesterday my parents saw her, and she told them that she's really depressed and wanted to commit suicide. She wanted to throw her body against the glass window and bleed to death. We saw her again today. She said she wasn't feeling as depressed. She was coherent, but extremely tired. She couldn't keep her eyes open. Her sciatica was causing her a lot of pain. She was actually crying out in pain. The nurse withheld her gabbapentin for the last three days because it makes her more tired than she already is. So it's better that she's concious and in unbearable pain? I wanted to say something, but held my tongue and didn't get involved. While we were there she gave Gramma her medication. She did suggest that we take Gramma to her doctor before she started living at the nursing home, because the house doctor never sees the patients. He just looks at the charts and gives orders based on that. I believe he goes in a couple hours a week. It's pathetic.

"It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend." ~William Blake

The Women

It's been an chaotic week, hence why I haven't posted a blog in four days. My mother told me that she wanted to kill herself, my grandmother might have been raped, I got a speeding ticket and my body is trying to come down with a cold, and as usual I have a ton of homework. This drawing is one of my favorite works by my favorite artist, Vincent van Gogh.

Wednesday morning I walked out to the patio to have a cigarette where my parents were already having one. I could see that Carmen was very upset and looked very worn down. She told me she woke up, saw the piles of paperwork that needed to be done, thought of everything else that needed to be done, tired of living in a house that looks the way it is, and felt the only way to escape it all is if she was no longer alive. She couldn't think of any reason why to not take the pills she set out that she knew would kill her. By that time she was crying and I was fighting back tears myself. I've thought in the past of what a relief it will be when she does die, but I didn't want it to happen like this. I know I sound like a horrible daughter, and maybe I am. I feel like I'll never be able to get out from under her until she herself is six feet under. But right then and there, I didn't want her to die, I didn't want her to kill herself. She said she really didn't think I would care if she did. I said things in the past that I know hurt her - some things she was never supposed to hear, like when I told a friend that I didn't think she would live another five years and I told Momma that she was my natural mother and Carmen is just my biological mother. I don't want to believe that this crazy person who never accomplished anything or did anything with her life, except raise me, is my real mother. She's illogical, irrational, and has no common sense. But since I was born, her life was about me and only me. She's done everything she can to give me every opportunity and was always there, usually when I didn't ask her to be, but there were a lot of times I'm glad she was. She kept repeating that she wasn't telling dad and me this to make us feel guilty, that she just needed to talk. I believe her. I felt guilty anyway, because I know I contributed to her depression. When I said those things, I was coming from an angry and resentful place. That's more of an excuse than a reason, isn't it? I told Diego what Carmen said and that I felt guilty for at least some of her depression, and he told me to not feel guilty. It's not my fault. "Your mother is a little nuts."

Wednesday night I studied and finished my assignment for women's studies (wmst), and was so proud of myself. I stayed up until 3 or so. I found it impossible to concentrate. Every time I sat down to read, my mind went in 100 different directions. I actually didn't get all that much studying done for my psychology exam. I thought about telling my wmst professor that I chose to study for that over doing her assignment, but I wanted to do it all, and I didn't want to turn in yet another late assignment. It's not her problem I can't concentrate, or that I had an exam that day. Then I totally misunderstood the article I wrote on and ended up not turning it in anyway. Thursday morning, after almost five hours of sleep, I hurried to my physical therapy appointment, and got a speeding ticket on the way of course. While the officer was writing my ticket, I burst into tears. I was still crying when I got to PT. My therapist, Rick, sat me down and asked me the problem. I told him about Carmen and the speeding ticket (I still haven't told my parents about that). He had me lay down on the table while he gave me a nice massage. I could see snot oozing out of my nose, dripping onto the support bar beneath my face. When he was done, I used the cloth I rest my face on to wipe my nose and the bar, and threw it in the hamper. I went into one of the rooms where I found some tissue to blow my nose. I looked in the mirror and I looked like I've been punched in both eyes, without the bruising. They were totally swollen. He didn't make me do exercises. I just had heat and electrical stimulation on my back. I did some studying on the bus on my way to school. After wmst, Dr. Mower and I walked out together. When I tried to tell her about Carmen, I started crying again, and told her about my speeding ticket, my lack of sleep and the exam I had after her class. She encouraged me to ask my psych teacher if I could take it at a later time. I knew I would do horribly on it, for lack of studying and I was completely exhausted. I didn't want to ask that of my teacher, but I want to get a good grade too. "It's ok to ask for help." She gave me a big hug, giving me strength, and I hugged her back. She has her own devils she's dealing with. My psych teacher told me that I could take the test on Tuesday with no penalty. "We're here to help you, not to beat you up." I wonder if it had anything to do with me crying so hard I could barely talk? I'm grateful that I have the teachers I do.

So now we come to yesterday, my deceased grandmother's birthday. Carmen gets a call early in the morning from one of the nurses where my gramma stays. She said Gramma said she was raped the night before. Wow! I had a doctor's appointment and I woke up with a sore throat (coincidentally one had nothing to do with the other), so I stayed home. I don't want to make my grandmother sick after she's been raped, especially since she's prone to pneumonia. Would that be double matricide? Driving my mother to suicide and killing her mother with a sore throat? My mother and I share the same doctor, so I tell her about mom's depression. She told me to call her psychiatrist and psychologist. Dr. Mower encouraged me to do the same. I get there a little late because I forgot to give myself time to take the back route. I'm on foot. The sidewalks are all torn up on the main street. It takes me 15 minutes instead of under 10. I'm so glad my doctor is so close. Because I'm late, my doctor sees another patient first. I end up waiting over an hour in the exam room. I wear a mask in case I have something contagious. Rachel is pregnant and I would feel horrible if I gave her anything. My back really hurts and I'm so tired I decide to dim the lights and lay down on the table. She walks in and says, "My chart says you're here for a follow up on your depression, but you're wearing a mask and laying on the table." My depression seems to be under control. This week was especially hard, so I feel run down, but not particularly sad or in despair.

I walk home, and feel totally exhausted. Dee calls, Carmen's best friend, probably wanting to know why Gramma is in the hospital, but I don't feel like talking to her. I decide to go to bed and wake up around 4. I eat a whole pint of tomato bisque with two breadsticks from Olive Garden. I keep telling myself I need to start on homework, but I'm just too tired. I go back to my room around 7 and check facebook. I hear my parents come in around 8, but I don't go out at first. I don't want to know. I eventually go to the living room and ask mom what happened. She said there was no bruising or signs of rape, but Gramma said he didn't actually penetrate her, that he laid on top of her and fondled her breasts and genitals. We don't know whether to believe it or not. We don't think she's lying, but she's talked stories before, like she and a Seahawks football player were lovers, and she and one of the male aides (who's younger than me) were going to get married. She fully believed in them. We don't know if they were dreams or what. But what if this did happen? Who would do this? Why didn't the aides see someone? Why didn't Gramma call for someone? The whole thing is very disturbing. Life is very disturbing.

"I didn't want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full." ~Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar