Letting Go

I visited my Grandma on Saturday. Earlier in the week I learned that she wasn't doing well -- she hasn't been eating. I had been warned of her decline. In fact, the last time I visited Grandma, she hadn't spent more than a few minutes awake and had no words for me at all. I had prepared myself for a difficult visit. I was worried because it had been five weeks since I last saw her.

My sister, our nieces, my kids and I went up to her room for a visit before lunch. The kids engaged in lively conversation (as kids often do) but Grandma was difficult to rouse and our attempts to engage her in conversation failed. Her eyes were red and runny so I ran a cloth under warm water and then dabbed at her eyes and face. In exchange, she gave me one word..."Wonderful," she said. Her teeth weren't in. Her recent weight loss has affected the fit of her dentures and she was a little difficult to understand, but I recognized the word as it left her mouth.

After about half an hour, my sister took the kids to the library and I waited with Grandma until the smell of lunch filled the corridor. I wheeled Grandma down to the dining room and pushed the chair in front of her place at the table. "I'd like to stay and help Grandma with lunch," I explained to the staff. "I think that's a wonderful idea," they smiled back. I grabbed a feeding stool from under the counter and placed it between Grandma and another diner while "the girls" served lunch to the expectant diners. "Pastrami on Rye or Cheese Cannelloni?" someone asked. I tried to envision pureed Pastrami on Rye. "I think maybe it'll be easier to feed her the Cannelloni," she suggested after some thought. I agreed.

A plate of pureed food arrived moments later -- pasta, tossed salad, coleslaw and something that looked a lot like green relish. I began by raising a fork full of pasta to Grandma's mouth. It burned her mouth and she winced. "Sorry Grandma. Here, take some milk to cool your mouth down." I lifted the cup of milk to her mouth and she took some sips. I followed it with some coleslaw. Better. I mixed a little of the pasta with some salad to bring the temperature down. It worked. She ate quite a few bites, but the effort was clearly taking its toll. She held her head in her hands to keep it raised up off of her chest.

At one moment, about half an hour into the meal, she looked at me and smiled. Not a small smile but the other kind; the type that fills a face...that fills a room. I began to cry. I lowered my head, both ashamed and confused by my tears. I sat with my forehead on the arm of her wheelchair, a fork full of cold pasta suspended in the air between us, trying to choke back my tears so that I could finish feeding Grandma her meal. Pressing my eyes closed against the tears, I could only play back the image of Grandma holding her head while I fed her the lunch. Not three months ago I had enjoyed lunch with her, and she fed herself most of her meal. We chatted between bites, we joked about her dinner companions and we gushed over dessert. Images of Grandma eating and Grandma feeding flashed in and out of my mind as a critical heart made exaggerated comparisons. I raised my head just high enough to quietly excuse myself from the table and I left the room to gather myself.

I managed to pull it together and made my way back to the dining room. Dessert was ice cream and Grandma ate every bite. She could barely lift her head to take the coffee though I made several attempts. "More," I thought I heard her say. "More or no more Grandma?" I asked. She shook her head oh so slightly. I made a few last attempts to give her coffee, but any sips she did take slid down the side of her mouth. She was done eating. When all was said and done, she had eaten perhaps a total of 3/4 cups of food.

We returned to her room and waited by the window for "the girls" to return and help her get back into her recliner. I patted her hand as I watched the door for someone to come and then...it happened. I felt her hand on top of mine, patting and stroking my hand. I felt the hot prickle of tears rise again in my eyes. This time, instead of fighting it, I just put my head on her shoulder and wept. I wanted her to reach up and run her fingers through my hair like she used to when I was a little girl, but it didn't happen. Instead, I put my arms around her shoulder and ran my fingers through her hair as I felt her head relax against my shoulder. "I love you so much Grandma," I said through my tears. We sat like that until my sister came back a few minutes later.

I wanted to say so many things to her during those minutes, but nothing that hinted of a good-bye; I didn't want her to think I had given up on her though it felt as though I had done just that. I was ashamed of the way I was feeling.

The thing is, I believe we don't mourn the loss of people exactly; what we mourn is the loss of what those people brought into our lives. It may have been support, love, laughter, camaraderie, compassion, solidarity, or friendship. When people we love grow old, we lose those things long before we lose those people. I think that's why I felt the way I did. I recognized in those hours, that my Grandmother was disappearing. I realized that there would be fewer moments of recognition and fewer moments of sharing. Our visits together would be short and shallow and few.

Grieving our losses is self-indulgent and it's necessary and it's a process. Grieving the anticipation of a loss, is greedy and selfish and perhaps that's why I felt ashamed. I should have focused on my grandmother's needs, but instead I let myself wallow. Next time, I'll do it differently. I'll wallow after my visits instead of during them.

Letting go of my Grandmother will be, I know, an incredible challenge for me. Letting go a little at a time might be the only way that I'm going to be able to climb that mountain.