I watched as my grandmother gently wiped the remaining blood from her chin. My great aunt, Pat had fallen last night, trying to get from her bed to her bathroom.
“You know better.” My grandmother said, “You can’t do that anymore without someone here to help you.”
I watched her eyes, full of hope, thinking that one day, somehow, Pat would be back to her normal self. After the first stroke caused her to be partially paralyzed, my grandmother had taken care of her baby sister. And Pat wasn’t the only one that was affected by the stroke. My grandmother stayed up every hour, her mind racing too fast to even consider falling asleep.
“Now you be careful next time, and press that button right here,” she said gesturing towards the nurse’s button, “and someone will be in here very quickly.”
Over these past couple of years, Pat had started as such a jolly person. Always telling jokes, and making sarcastic remarks. Then she had her first episode, and she didn’t have the mind to be such the joyful woman that she once was. Her health wouldn’t permit it. We would take her to our home every weekend, to prevent us from having to make numerous trips to Culpepper. In my opinion, it only made things harder. But in my ten-year-old mind, all of this was just making things harder. I didn’t understand why she got all of the attention, and I was mad at her for causing my family so much pain. Looking back, I feel sorry for my immaturity about the whole heartbreaking experience.
Late at night, we received a phone call from the doctor. He said that Pat had just another stroke and her kidney was failing. She only had about a week to live. We all got up the next morning, and took shifts sitting by her bed, watching her body and mind just drift away. She was noticeably unhealthy, and obviously ready to go. She had been through so much in her life: all the pains of dialysis, the suffering of not seeing her family, and the claustrophobic feelings of being stuck within that nursing home. We had all tried to help as much as we could, but it just wasn’t enough.
She slept most of that week, occasionally looking up at the concerned people surrounding her. I don’t think she really knew who we were. She was gone, regardless as to whether her heart was still beating and her mind still racing. Pat was gone. It was now just a person lying there. My grandmother watched, as her baby sister, childhood secret keeper, and best friend, sat in pain. It hurt for her to live, and it pained us to know she was going to die. I looked over at my grandmother, who now looked particularly different. That tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes had now been shattered.
God had taken her health, and now he was taking her away. That’s how it seemed at the time. Now, looking back, I know it was a blessing. She simply moved on where she could be happy, and it would be selfish to look at it as anything else. Sure it’s okay to miss her, who wouldn’t? It wasn’t anything we could do anymore aside from letting go. And we did.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
WA-1
I watched as my grandmother gently wiped the remaining blood from her chin. My great aunt, Pat had fallen last night, trying to get from her bed to her bathroom.
“You know better.” My grandmother said, “You can’t do that anymore without someone here to help you.”
I watched her eyes, full of hope, thinking that one day, somehow, Pat would be back to her normal self. After the first stroke caused her to be partially paralyzed, my grandmother had taken care of her baby sister. And Pat wasn’t the only one that was affected by the stroke. My grandmother stayed up every hour, her mind racing too fast to even consider falling asleep.
“Now you be careful next time, and press that button right here,” she said pointing towards the nurse button, “and someone will be in here very quickly.”
Over these past couple of years, Pat had started as such a jolly person. Always telling jokes, and making sarcastic remarks. Then she had her first episode, and she didn’t have the mind to be such the happy woman that she once was. Her health wouldn’t permit it. We would take her to our home every weekend, to prevent us from having to make numerous trips to Culpepper. In my opinion, it only made things harder. But in my ten-year-old mind, all of this was just making things harder. I didn’t understand why she got all of the attention, and I was mad at her for causing my family so much pain. Looking back, I feel sorry for my immaturity about the whole subject.
Late at night, we received a phone call from the doctor. He said that Pat had just another stroke and her kidney was failing. She only had about a week to live. We all got up the next morning, and took shifts sitting by her bed, watching her body and mind just drift away. She was noticeably unhealthy, and obviously ready to go. She had been through so much in her life: all the pains of dialysis, the suffering of not seeing her family, and the claustrophobic feelings of being stuck within that nursing home. We had all tried to help as much as we could, but it just wasn’t enough.
She slept most of that week, occasionally looking up at the people surrounding her. I don’t think she really knew who we were. She was gone, regardless as to whether her heart was still beating and her mind still racing. Pat was gone. It was now just a person lying there. My grandmother watched, as her baby sister, childhood secret keeper, and best friend, sat in pain. It hurt for her to live, and it pained us to know she was going to die. I looked over at my grandmother, who now looked extremely different. That tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes was shattered.
God had taken her health, and now he was taking her away. That’s how it seemed at the time. Now, looking back, I know it was a blessing. She simply moved on where she could be happy, and it would be selfish to look at it as anything else. Sure it’s okay to miss her, who wouldn’t? It wasn’t anything we could do anymore aside from letting go. And we did.
“You know better.” My grandmother said, “You can’t do that anymore without someone here to help you.”
I watched her eyes, full of hope, thinking that one day, somehow, Pat would be back to her normal self. After the first stroke caused her to be partially paralyzed, my grandmother had taken care of her baby sister. And Pat wasn’t the only one that was affected by the stroke. My grandmother stayed up every hour, her mind racing too fast to even consider falling asleep.
“Now you be careful next time, and press that button right here,” she said pointing towards the nurse button, “and someone will be in here very quickly.”
Over these past couple of years, Pat had started as such a jolly person. Always telling jokes, and making sarcastic remarks. Then she had her first episode, and she didn’t have the mind to be such the happy woman that she once was. Her health wouldn’t permit it. We would take her to our home every weekend, to prevent us from having to make numerous trips to Culpepper. In my opinion, it only made things harder. But in my ten-year-old mind, all of this was just making things harder. I didn’t understand why she got all of the attention, and I was mad at her for causing my family so much pain. Looking back, I feel sorry for my immaturity about the whole subject.
Late at night, we received a phone call from the doctor. He said that Pat had just another stroke and her kidney was failing. She only had about a week to live. We all got up the next morning, and took shifts sitting by her bed, watching her body and mind just drift away. She was noticeably unhealthy, and obviously ready to go. She had been through so much in her life: all the pains of dialysis, the suffering of not seeing her family, and the claustrophobic feelings of being stuck within that nursing home. We had all tried to help as much as we could, but it just wasn’t enough.
She slept most of that week, occasionally looking up at the people surrounding her. I don’t think she really knew who we were. She was gone, regardless as to whether her heart was still beating and her mind still racing. Pat was gone. It was now just a person lying there. My grandmother watched, as her baby sister, childhood secret keeper, and best friend, sat in pain. It hurt for her to live, and it pained us to know she was going to die. I looked over at my grandmother, who now looked extremely different. That tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes was shattered.
God had taken her health, and now he was taking her away. That’s how it seemed at the time. Now, looking back, I know it was a blessing. She simply moved on where she could be happy, and it would be selfish to look at it as anything else. Sure it’s okay to miss her, who wouldn’t? It wasn’t anything we could do anymore aside from letting go. And we did.
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