by Lisa Federico

Created on: December 16, 2009

My Grandmother turned 96 five months ago.   The staff at the nursing home where she lives shake their heads - impressed with her spry condition, sharp mind, and devilish sense of humor.  The doctors are always questioning her, testing her, taking notes.

Sure, she's had her trials in life – two husbands gone, a son gone, many broken bones.  She's been through more wars and presidents than most; heck – sit down with her for an hour.  She's living history.

She's up, bathed, dressed … and I mean dressed – coordinating outfit with shoes, purse, and jewelry to match, hair done, lipstick on …. by 9AM each day.  You'll find her reading the paper in the community living room, watching the news, talking to family or one of her three elementary school girlfriends (all also 96) on her pink cell phone, or knitting.

Grandmother, as I have always called her, and I are very close – have always been.  I visit her three times a week, Wednesday afternoon at 3PM, Saturday morning at 9AM, and Sunday morning at 10AM, every holiday, and our birthdays.  She's one of my best friends, and definitely one of the coolest people I know.  I love being  with her.  We have fun together going out to lunch, catalog shopping, tending her plants, watching movies, and talking for hours about books we've read, thoughts on life, afterlife, death and dying, UFOs, the economy, what it was like when she was growing up in the 20s and 30s, food, and we gossip and laugh, and laugh some more.

When Grandmother came down with an unexplained illness last month I left work and fled to her bedside.  She was sleeping peacefully when I arrived, but she looked tired and old and lifeless.  I took her hand and called out “Grandmother ….” in a whisper.

She opened her eyes and looked at me sadly.  “I don't know what's wrong with me.  I don't seem to have any energy left.”  She paused.  “Maybe I'm getting ready to die …” she said quietly, her eyes on mine.

“No …” I looked at her straight on – tears coming to my eyes, but I held them at bay.

Then I said, exasperated, “You can't die now; I've been planning your 100th birthday party for two years!”

She closed her eyes then, but the sly smile that crept across her face made me feel better, and somehow, I knew she would be ok.

A week later we went to lunch,

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