Clinging

“Hi Grandma,” I finally managed to choke up. It shouldn’t have been a big deal to visit my Grandma downstairs where she had lived for the last 16 years… Yet I had avoided this room for weeks.

She was caught by surprise and immediately turned her head to look at me. Her frail voice found its way across stale room, “Hi sweetie, how are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you recently.”

“I’ve been pretty busy lately…” Rather a lame excuse, but at least it was true. I couldn’t admit to all the other reasons. How the blue veins protruding from her soft, crinkled hands scared me. The bags under her eyes sagging down her face, making her look like she hadn’t slept in days, when in fact that’s almost all she ever did. Her every limb lay in a neutral position all the time to help reduce pain, from her feet to her ever-sparser white hair. Age had worn through, leaving her skin endlessly wrinkled, eyes dark. A disintegrating body caged her and left her with nothing to do but sit in the bed and wait. Just wait. For time perhaps, or company, or for her weak body to find strength again. She was in so much pain, yet no matter how sorry I felt for her, I couldn’t help her.

It had been four months today since she had last left this room.  Four months since my younger brother had rushed upstairs, yelling, “Mom! Grandma can’t get out of bed!” Sure enough, her leg had taken its final step and was no longer able to support her. The rest of her body followed quickly – a failed kidney, arthritis in her back and fingers, blood in her urine, and cancer leeching all her energy. Soon, my parents were occupied with nothing but arranging for specialized mattresses, a reclining bed, and home care nurses to come and give sponge baths while the health care system got their act together. Family life revolved around making sure she was comfortable.

Now, my grandma is still clinging to life, except she had nothing to fill it anymore. It wasn’t until more recently that she had been confined to bed but even before that she had appeared to have lost her vigor for life. 16 years ago, when Grandpa died, she had moved in with us only to spend her days knitting, and watching either soap operas or golf. Back then I spent a lot of time downstairs with her, learning to do cross-stitch and telling her what sorts of things I was up to.  During the week, she would go out to do her shopping at Safeway with my mom, before taking us kids out to eat. Over time that all slowed, until she refused to even walk upstairs to have dinner with the family.  Having a conversation with her became more difficult as I was required to provide more and more of the talking.  My grandma’s life emptied and she herself became a shell, sitting on the beach, watching the waves without really hearing them, and all the while knowing she, too, would be washed away soon.

Was her life still worth clinging to? The thought flitted through my mind before I felt guilt clutch at my throat. I simply could not comprehend what her life had become. Is it worth living if you have nothing to live for?

There was something important that I had forgotten however. This dying woman before me was my grandma, and I didn’t know how much time I had left with her. So I swallowed my guilt, pocketed my fear, and took another step inside the room.