Five. I was just starting to recount our wonderful trip to Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Three weeks later, suddenly and unexpectedly, we traveled through three more states. In one month’s time we’ve visited five states.
My Grandma survived breast cancer 20 years ago. Her cancer came back four years ago, but was able to be controlled by maintenance therapy. It was there, but it wasn’t actively spreading. In April her oncologist said she was in remission. It lasted two months.
About two weeks ago she learned her cancer had returned. Her oncologist said he expected her to still be here a year from now. My aunt sent daily text updates. There were ups and downs, as is to be expected when someone is 85 years old.
On Monday during dinner, my phone pinged. And I saw one word that instantly reduced me to tears: hospice. Her health had declined so much over the weekend that she had decided not to move forward with treatments and instead be moved into a hospice facility.
It seemed to come out of the blue. I wasn’t necessarily surprised by it, but I also wasn’t expecting it. The oncologist said two weeks. I spent the rest of the evening in a daze, trying my best to pretend the news wasn’t true.
My family made plans to drive up on Thursday so that we could spend a long weekend with her. My brother called me on Tuesday around lunch, extremely upset, and told me that Grandma didn’t have much time left. I dumped about six different things on my co-worker’s plate, went home to pack and we left about two hours later. I am beyond thankful for a job that enables me to put my family first no matter what.
The drive to Cincinnati was hard. By that point my aunt had updated everyone that we needed to be there within 48 hours. I just wanted to get there. I am extremely close to my Grandma. I wanted to see her, to hug her, to let her know again (and again) that I loved her and that she means the world to me.
We stopped in Lexington for the night, and then arrived in Cincinnati the next morning. When we pulled up to the hospice center I wanted to throw up. I didn’t know how she was going to be. I didn’t know how I was possibly going to say goodbye. I didn’t want to say goodbye. I just wanted to go to her apartment like normal, where she’d be sitting in her coral-colored rocker reading or sewing.
She looked so small in the hospital bed, despite being in the “pleasantly plump” category for as long as I’ve known her. She had an oxygen tube in and a hospital gown on. But she was still Grandma and I don’t know which of us was happier to see the other. I sat on her bed and held her hand, tried to be cheerful and forcibly willed myself not to cry.
I was so thankful I arrived before anyone else. Mike took LJ out into the hall, and we had a few minutes together. We said what needed to be said.
Slowly the rest of the family trickled in. We had two priests come; they showed up about 15 minutes apart. The second priest remarked as he was leaving that our family was multiplying like rabbits.
Indeed. By Wednesday afternoon there were 15 of us there. We kept moving chairs in from other rooms so everyone would have a place to sit. And there was a nice family room two doors down so breathers could be taken when needed. When my time comes, I hope that I have lived a life such that my family spills out of the room into the hall and the room down the way. She is so incredibly loved.
She wasn’t good Wednesday afternoon. After the doctor left, her children and their spouses said goodbye. We crowded around her bed and she said her goodbyes again. She closed her eyes. We prayed. We hovered closer.
Three minutes later her eyes popped open and she said, “I’m still here?!”
We sat there in stunned silence for a moment. That moment – her trademark sense of humor intact – will live on in family lore forever. Note to my future self, you cannot close your eyes and die on command.
My dad and I stayed at hospice with her that night. The next day, Thursday, she was like a new person. She was alert the whole day, talking as she was able and she definitely had her usual personality. At one point I asked if she liked having everyone in the room or if it was too much – she replied, “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
In a weird, strange way Thursday was really nice. Despite the situation, it was like being around “normal” Grandma. The family was all together for the first time in a long time. I have good memories from Thursday.
We decided to come back home on Friday. It was a really tough decision. Ultimately, I decided that I wanted to have my good memories from Thursday be my final memories of Grandma. We stopped by hospice one final time on Friday morning and I said my final goodbye to my Grandma. Hardest thing I have ever done.
We left shortly after noon. I curled up in the front seat with my afghan (made by Grandma) and used the familiar scenery as a distraction. Once we got across the river I felt a little better. As we drove through the rolling hills of Kentucky, I felt peace. I was at peace with my decision.
Today is Saturday. Grandma is still with us. My parents said Friday was a repeat of Thursday – she was alert and communicating. Today she slept most of the day.
We don’t know how much longer she has. The doctor said yesterday that the outside is not reflective of the inside. She is extremely sick. I cherish the days I was able to spend with her. I hope her remaining days are peaceful and pain free.
In the meantime we wait. And we pray. And we remember, because the memories are numerous and good. She is a remarkable lady.
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