by Dan Hiland

Created on: December 05, 2009

My grandmother's last few months of life were difficult, to say the least. At 96, she'd lived a full life, and up until her final few years, had avoided the ravages of Alzheimer's or other debilitating diseases.

But with the passing of my father (her only child), she was giving up on almost everything, her hope withering away just as my father had.

Following a series of falls and subsequent injuries, dementia started creeping into her mind and soul, making it difficult for most of us- her immediate family and friends- to be around her. Rapid mood swings and accusations of theft and persecution became more commonplace as she withdrew from a world that seemed increasingly hostile.

Having to sell her home and move into a managed care facility, she soon missed that little house of hers and wanted to move back, but we both knew that was out of the question. She needed more care than casual visits could provide. Over the next year and a half, she went from one nursing home to the next. After having been evicted from the third place for being so difficult to handle, she was currently in the last place in town that would take her- and I was at my wit's end.

And now she'd had another incident, one serious enough to land her in a hospital for a three-week stay.

Drifting in and out of consciousness as she healed from various injuries and infections, she would babble about (and with) long-dead husbands and family members, occasionally lashing out at the medical staff for good measure.

I'd had my fill of hospitals, having been in and out for so many daily visits that I was eating more at their cafeteria than at home. Since Grandma was usually asleep when I arrived, I would move to the other side of the curtain, where I didn't have to watch her unconsciously fuss and tug at her IV tubes and various taped-on sensors. There I would sit and write- sometimes for an hour or more- and listen to her and the equipment that was keeping her out of trouble.

Trying to ignore the artificial odor of chemicals and disinfectants, the barely disguised aroma of urine intruding on my writing, I started thinking about all that Grandma had gone through as of late- and then said to my frustrated self, "What a hell of a way to live..."

More than once she'd told me how she prayed every night for God to "Please, just let me die in my sleep."

At first I hadn't understood, thinking this a terrible and irreverent way for a Christian woman to talk.

"Now Grandma," I'd say, "Come on. It isn't that bad.

• 1
• 2
• Next Page >>