The Stars We Are

I once helped a woman die. I guess my story is a little different from those in the papers these days since it was my Grandma and she was already quite old.

Her name was Joyce. At one time she worked as an elevator operator at Magnums and, like many of her generation, she still used the word, "colored." I was never her favorite but even my sister who was, had to agree, she loved her cats more than any of us. Add to that fact a cantankerous spirit and you can see where I'm going here.

One day my mom called and Grandma was sick. She had broken her hip, she was in the hospital, and she was far away from most of us. Except for me. I wasn't so far away that I couldn't drive out and see her. So said my mom.

Everything changes when you enter a hospital. And when you are there visiting an older person...what am I trying to say here...everyone but you knows you are there to say goodbye.

Here, maybe it's time to have that wee pour of scotch. Through the window of her hospital room I saw Grandma and what I saw made me realize that it had actually been a long time. A real long time since I had seen her. My dad arrived moments later, convinced I had the wrong room. "Is that my mom? That's not my mom." We held our breath and walked in.

She was connected to a million different things, but the most absurd was a giant astronaut-like helmet on her head. This was a small woman under normal circumstances. A woman who had dieted, drank and suntanned a good portion of her life. But that day she was as new to me as the machines lined up by her bed.

It wasn't hard to start taking control of things. I guess it came to me naturally. My dad could barely hold her hand and, what with this being an HMO and all, I immediately understood that you had to fight for the small victories: the pitcher of ice-water, the chairs for us to sit in, any shred of information. You learned the doctors' schedules so you could ask them questions, you befriended the night nurses because they were always nicer, you went and got the popsicles your damn self.

She was coherent and then she was gone. She was frightened and then mean to the asian nurses. She told me that I had never been her favorite, but that she was considering changing her mind. She told me that the stuffed animal I had brought her was not a tiger but a leopard because leopards have spots.

Night one I spent on a small cot lying next to her constantly waking and checking for her breathing. Night two I sat by her bed all night, having promised the nurses they wouldn't need to tie her down because I would keep her from taking off the oxygen mask. Night three I cried and it was mostly from exhaustion.

There were decisions to be made. Legal decisions. And I had to translate all of them to my dad who refused to comprehend the options that were being laid out in front of him like the last hand of a poker game. But we were way ahead of him. He was still asking questions like, "Will she ever walk again?"

When she was lucid, I did whatever it was that she wanted. Went back to her house to grab her checkbooks, dialed one of her friends on the hospital phone so she could tell them, "It's Joyce. I'm at the hospital and I don"t know when I'm getting out." I called all of the family and begged them to come out. I rubbed lotion into her hands every time they pulled out the IVs, and, even though it's not my strongest suit, I tried to make her laugh.

And then the stuffed animals starting scaring her, the photos we had taped up of all the grandchildren were too ominous, and the doctors and nurses, well, they were just trying to kill her.

At that point, she weighed 85 pounds. She was having trouble swallowing. She had mostly stopped talking. They were going to have to stick a tube down her throat.

It was one of the night nurses who pulled me aside one day and told me. I knew it wasn't part of her job. This was a state-run institution and counseling wasn't included. She told me that my grandma was not getting any better. She told me that I should convince my dad to say goodbye to his mother. And she told me that my grandma didn't have to hang around for our sakes.

I can't say it got much easier after that. I never convinced my dad. But when I held my grandmother's hand and for a second I saw her eyes bright and wide, I took that moment to tell her, it was alright by me.