In those last days, she taught me dignity.
Tiny, hunched over, with piercing blue eyes, my grandmother was nonetheless excruciatingly intimidating. No one called her by first name — no one. And beyond a polite hand shake — a kiss hello to the cheek if you were her descendant — you didn’t touch her.
She would receive you in an easy chair amid a pile of books and papers. She would invite you to sit across from her and if you were her descendant, you tried to sit up straight. If you were a descendant of the female variety, you thought about crossing your ankles, and keeping your hands in your lap.
And then you talked about books, and what the river was doing, and polite news of friends. She was very careful how she asked about personal matters, because she wanted to know, but it wasn’t drawing room conversation, and — far more significantly to her – it was none of her business.
But she wanted to know.
So she would ask delicately. “The last time we spoke, you were considering graduate school,” or: “you seemed tired our last visit, I hope you’ve had some rest.” (Your last visit, you were fighting tears and regaling her with the horrors of new professional life, but she totally forgot that whole part and just remembered that you seemed fatigued.)
And if she suspected a pregnancy? Well, she so desperately wanted to know about that — but absolutely would not violate your privacy so would say, “How are you feeling?” with a sidelong look at your figure.
When the nurses in the hospital called her “Mary,” it made my skin crawl.
“OKAY MARY,” said the women banging into her room, pulling gloves on. “YOU NEED A CHANGE, HUH?”
It was the very early morning of our second day in the hospital. I had buzzed twice for help. She needed fresh sheets. She also needed medicine — her body was popping with contained pain and spasming muscles. She was whimpering.
“OKAY, HONEY,” they said. “I THINK YOU’RE DUE FOR A SHOT ANYWAY.”
And then they put their hands on her and talked about their weekend plans, while her body popped and she fought tears.
“IT’S OKAY HONEY,” they said.
And I understood that I wanted too much. I wanted them to know that the person they were calling “honey” was the only woman of her generation to pilot a sloop through the waters of the Gulf of Maine alone. That she had served her country in uniform because the only thing she hated more than war was Hitler. That the week her sister — her best friend — had died, this tiny wrinkled frame of woman had sat for exams at Radcliffe and passed with honors.
It had long been my routine to step discretely out of the room whenever an aid was helping her. Her dignity was a family commodity — she was unflappable, super-human, and that was the way we all wanted it.
So I made for the door while the women chatted and prepared to change the bed, and my grandmother writhed quietly.
”I think changing the sheets is quite painful for her,” I said. “Can we put in an order for pain medication right now so it’s ready when you’re done?”
“Sure,” said one, yanking the hospital johnny, stripping my grandmother naked, cold, wet. The woman brandished a damp washcloth in her gloved hand.
“How about you call for the medicine,” I said. “Let me do that.” The aid shrugged and handed me the washcloth and water bowl.
I looked down at my grandmother.
“Okay?” I asked. She nodded. I washed her as I had washed my babies a million times, carefully passing a warm cloth over precious, vulnerable flesh, patting her dry.
“Let’s get the bed made,” I said to the other aid. “I’m worried that she’s cold.”
“I can’t do it alone,” she replied.
“Just tell me what to do,” I moved to the head of the bed. I had seen them do this, turn her on her side, pull the sheet under her gather up the old, yank on the new, lay it flat. Someone had to hold her shoulders.
“We’re going to turn you on your side,” I said into her good ear, “and in a minute you’ll be all warm and fresh.” I put my arms on her naked shoulders, lifted when the aid said lift. My grandmother cried out. I turned her into my chest, wondering whether my presence was making it better or cosmically worse.
That was when she inhaled. Deep against me, nuzzling, just like my babies did. And it occurred to me that I was probably the first woman to hold her like that in about eighty years. I rested my cheek against her head, stroked her hair.
“Almost there,” I soothed into her good ear. “This will be hard for a minute and then we’ll have you settled and you won’t believe how good you feel.”
She whimpered, we turned her back, she cried out, and then she was settled. A fresh hospital gown, pillows tucked carefully around her, a new cottony blanket. The medication finally came, and while it took effect, I brushed her hair and someone brought soup.
And then she was propped up, eyes alert, fumbling to set a napkin into her collar. I leaned over and helped, spreading it smooth over the clean johnny.
“Thank you,” she said to me with a warm smile.
“You’re welcome,” I answered.
Her eyes went to the little stack of books on the table. At the top, a new one I had brought her, filled with anecdotes and jokes about sailing.
“Would you like me to read to you while you eat?” I asked.
“Yes, please,” she said. So I read to her, and she laughed more than once, which made me laugh (because I know nothing about sailing). We had a few more weeks together, and there were many more horrible nights. But I never again wondered whether caring for her basic needs threatened her dignity.
All she ever said to me about it was “thank you.” And that was how I learned that’s all you ever need to say.
Thank you
You’re welcome.
i would have failed her. i would have been frightened and ashamed and angry. i wouldn’t have done what you so perfectly did. i hope i will remember your example when the time comes. thanks again, liz. again and again.
You don’t know what you can do until the time comes. It isn’t for everyone, doing end of life care for a loved one. It is really important to know that it’s okay to leave — better, if it is doing you damage to be there.
It came at a time of life when I was in the role for my own children, so it was a logical transition.
Liz, I don’t think logic has anything to do with it. It’s in your bones, your soul. You know what to do when the time comes, and make the movements that your heart leads you to, but I don’t think logic and reason have much place in it, but maybe that’s just me and the way I handle the wrenching pain of losing a loved one.
And when it’s all over, then you handle the grieving with the grace and dignity they deserve, as you are the one to carry on. I think only then logic and reason in the face of holding in those tears while everyone around you falls apart, and we, as the mothers, hold it all together.
I think that not everyone is up to the job. I think every family member has her strengths and weaknesses. My strength and skill set made me the right person to do what I did. But I don’t think everyone should do it and I think there is an incredibly steep emotional price to pay for doing it.
wow. I marvel at your trust that you will do the right thing at the right time even thought its clear you don’t know beforehand what thr right thing might be, when.
Dare I say you carry the same dignity.
Thank you for sharing. This was a necessary tale.
I have lived that scene. I asked myself that same question as I bathed Dad at home with us, and then again in the week at the hospital as he lay dying. At home while he could still move, he would reach his arms up and hold me tight, like my children did as I lived them from the tub. His hand would graze my cheek and he would smile.
Did I help make his transition better? I think so, but i know he helped me make mine as easy as it could be, under the circumstances.
Thank-you for sharing her with us. For me, it helps make remembering him a little easier too.
maybe your best yet
that made me feel more peaceful about what i could, and could not do, for my dear late husband
i know he was grateful for what i could, the light in his eyes told me everything
thank you
I’m so sorry for your loss.
It sounds like we can both relate to the horror and grace of the experience.
Thank you for sharing. It reminds me so much of my grandma. I miss her so.
Thank you for this. My grandmother, my Mimi, is the most elegant woman I’ve ever known and she’s in failing health. I hate seeing her in a nursing home. I hate that she can’t walk. But she’s still my Mimi. I still sit and visit with her, and we joke and laugh. But then I sit in my car in the parking lot and cry before I drive home. As hard as it is for me, I still go see her as often as I can because I love her so much and I know how happy it makes her to see me.
I think it is part of the natural course. It hurts so much, and it’s also very beautiful. I wish you the best in it.
It’s a powerful time in our mid-lives when we care for both the young and the old in ways that are similar; instinctive and sprung from our depths. Thank you for your words.
Thank you for coming, Nancy.
Husband: “Are you reading that blog again”
Me: “Yep.”
Husband: “Are you going to cry this time or laugh?”
Me: “Does it matter?”
Husband: “No. I just want to know if I should get the tissues.”
This one required tissues. Thank you.
Oh, I love this, thanks! When I hit publish I wondered whether it was too much of a downer to stand, lol. I, of course, found it very inspirational. But, you know, I wrote it.
My grandmother died from full-body cancer. My mother told me stories much like this one; how outraged she was when the nurses and medical aids were so disrespectful of a woman who in spite of marrying at sixteen with only an eighth grade education to a shiftless drunkard of a man managed to become a master seamstress, a genealogist and a woman who commanded respect in her community. My mother did exactly what you did, taking over certain aspects of her care, disregarding the respectful distance she had always taken. Thank you for sharing this story. It’s amazing how there always seems to be these amazing women who inspire us to “sit up straight…crossing your ankles and keeping your hands in your lap.”
There is something so unbelievably f-ed up in how this country deals with birth and death. I was angry at the hospital staff for a very long time after this experience.
I keep hoping by the time I die there will be home-deaths, death midwives, death doulas, and I’ll never be in the hospital.
I think I need to say thank you for sharing. I read your posts and they usually get me thinking about my own life and interactions. I don’t always read the comments, maybe because I am lost in my own mind with my own take on what you have so eloquently written. But when I do read them, I notice that you comment on them. It only occurred to me tonight that perhaps you continue with your thoughts through the comments. It’s a discussion. So if I may add this; I enjoy your posts and I can not tell you how many times I have recalled something that was written here to help me handle something in my day. Again, thanks.
Thank you, Jane. Comments mean a lot to me. Sometimes they are a good place for discussion. They’re also very fun for me to know who my readers are, to find out about their lives. Also, the blog is a lot of work, and it really makes me smile when I hear that people are appreciating it.
I lost one grandmother to cancer a few weeks ago. A second is slowly fading away with dementia (the third passed a little over a year ago. It’s complicated, I’ll explain later =) She knows she’s fading, which is bringing depression.
I needed this.
Thank you.
I’m so sorry, Jess, for your loss and for the experience of loving someone with dementia. It’s really hard.
as I write this, tears are still running down my face – the beautiful simplicity of your words, describing something so precious, I cant even begin to desctibe what they do for me – my tears are not of sadness, but more perhaps of understanding, empathy, knowing. thank you for sharing with us your life, your thoughts, your soul.
Thank you for coming, Anne Marie, and for your kind words.
I came here today, because I thought I needed a laugh. Instead I cried. Thank you.
You’re welcome, Marie.
I worked in a nusing home for a year and the hardest part was playing a part in a patient’s loss of dignity. It is wonderful that you could ease that for your grandmothe and be with her to the very end.
Oh Liz, I held it together until I read the last word … then it sunk in and I cried. Your words have that effect. My grandmother passed away from complications of cancer when I was 14. She was the most important woman in my life, and I miss her terribly every day. In her last weeks, watching her deteriorate just tore at me. She was a former model and professional swimmer who raised three kids, two grandkids and a great-grandchild. She was so strong, so capable, so dignified. To see her lose that … Oh, there I go again with the tears. I can’t put into words how much I miss her — 15 years later.
The world is just never the same is it? I feel foolish sometimes, for how much I still miss her. I’m so sorry.
Oh this one just has me in tears.
I worked as an aide in a nursing home and quickly became a less than favorite aide amongst my co -workers. I took time with my patients and tried to treat them as though they were my own grandparents. Co workers became annoyed with me for taking “too long” to get my patients ready. That was ok though because a lot of my patients would tell me I was “a nice one” and that meant more to me than my co-workers’ approval.
When the time comes it can be just intuitive as to how to take care of our loved ones. When my In-laws were in a horrific car accident 2 years ago,I remember helping my mother-in-law on and off a bedpan and wiping her. Something that before that accident I never in a million years would have thought I would been doing.
Your grandmother must have had so much peace with you helping to take care of her.
I am so glad to read this Alyson. I was mad at the hospital staff for a long time. The staff that was good to her I’ll be forever grateful to. Truly.
Your Ducky posts are so touching. I’ve been reading since before she passed and I am sad that the posts are less frequent but so so glad you are still sharing new stories of her.
This is certainly not the first time one of your posts has brought me tears – or laughter, for that matter, you should have seen my partner’s mock stern look when he’d see me tuck into bed with your book (“No guffawing tonight, now! It makes the bed shake too much!”). But back to this post… I completely broke down, remembering my own grandmother’s last days, her incredible courage, her resilience, and the percieved indignity of it all. My own feelings of inadequacy, too, facing this formidable woman. The woman who’d been wearing pants before anyone in her generation was, who rode a motorcycle and refused to marry until she was in her mid-thirties having finally found true love. The woman who was chasing after toddler me on all fours in her seventies, with whom I talked on the phone daily in my teens, and whose granddaughter I was so fiercely proud to be. As the days trickled away, long and getting longer, watching her being now tied to the bed, as she’d often try to get up, forgetting she had a hip fracture (her third, and she managed to start walking again after each one), all I could do was be there with her, and hold her hand (I’m tempted to say “hang out”, although I don’t know how she’d feel about that…) That feeling of her hand in mine stayed with me for years. Ten years after she left us, in the month my grandmother would have turned one hundred, a new life was created. Months later, upon learning she was a girl, I knew who had sent me this miracle. Needless to say, she was named after her…
Thank you, Elizabeth, for this beautiful post.
Gosh darn you, Liz and your making me cry! I made it all the way to the last sentence before you got me! Beautiful writing, and wonderful to lay down these memories of your grandmother and share them with us. Excellent, excellent.
Love your new banner by the way! I read all your posts through google reader, and had no idea you had a new banner – it’s great!
Over 16 years ago, I lost my Nanny. Tiny little woman with a commanding voice. She was no-nonsense and fiercly independent. From the time I was 6 I fashioned myself after her. She was in charge of life.
The best gift I received as a teen was my extended family allowing me to assist in her end-of-life care in her last months. They could have easily removed me from the situation; they could have decided I was too young. I saw the best (the care and compassion of the hospice workers being among the best) and the worst of it (the pain medication made her forget who I was at the end). It taught me so much, gave me so much of her; I would not be the same person otherwise.
I miss her immensely, even now. We celebrate her birthday still in my house. I hope she would be proud.
I have been there, for my 99 year old Grandmother and for my 38 year old bf who was dying of cancer. Being a caregiver to my Grandmother was a gift that taught me patience, compassion, and humility. Her passing was peaceful and I was grateful her time to go be with her beloved husband had come. I felt honored to be so close to her.
Doing the same for a vibrant young mother wasting away to the ravages of cancer was a different trial that forced a different sort of emotional struggle.
Such beautiful words! Thank you Liz!! I am a longtime reader and I am always inspired through the laughter and sometimes the tears. As a 20-something-year-old woman, you’re a woman, I’d be proud to call a friend/mentor. Kind regards.
Oh Dear—”That was when she inhaled”. Got me good
gramps
For whatever reason, this was the second story today in my RSS reader about dignity and dying. The other one was over on Dr Grumpy:
http://drgrumpyinthehouse.blogspot.com/2010/03/checkout-time.html
I am down to one grandmother. My last grandfather died last summer, at home, like he wanted. I’m making sure I call my grandmother at least once a month. I can always hear the brightness in her voice when I call, and I know that even if we talk about nothing it makes her happy to know I care.
Oh Liz. That was so beautiful. Thank you for writing that post.
Oh, man, Liz. That’s a lot for all of us to live up to. Bad Cohen’s (step)grandmother is very much like Ducky, and this makes me realize it’s time for another visit with her. There’s something about the way we women care for each other, across all ties of blood or marriage or not-quite-relations. I wonder if someday it will be the toddler’s wife or daughters taking care of me. I hope so.
Thank you Liz. My Grandmother is fighing stage 4 breast cancer with a dignity that is otherworldly. I cannot say I would do the same,but I do know that I will move heaven and earth to ensure that the ones that care for ,while she is sick, treat her with much deserved respect.What an honor it must have been to be able to provide your beloved Ducky with the comfort she so desperatly craved.I can only hope that I am able to do the same for my Nana.
Thank you. I may need that one day.
Jenny
Once again you have made me cry. So beautiful. I know I will be in this position someday with my parents – I have the love, I just hope I have the strength to do what you did. Thank you.
My God, Liz. You will never cease to amaze me with the beauty of your writing. That was stunningly gorgeous, uplifting and heartbreaking all same time. I am in awe, and would be honored to be half the granddaughter, mother, or writer that you are.
i couldn’t have been so strong. thank for sharing this story.
If I didn’t worry about Mare reading your comments I’d call you a bad word. You terrify me.
There’s still so much pain, even after time has gone by, and so much love when you write about her. My grandmother is getting older, and sicker, and is going to be the first person I love that I have to say goodbye to. I’m grateful that I’ve made it to 39 without having to experience such an enormous loss, but I feel so unprepared. I guess all we can do is enjoy and appreciate the time we do have, which should be true of all our loved ones.
It seems that so little is passed from one generation to the next anymore. We hurry through life and seem surprised and often afraid when we come to the end. Yet this process of dieing is so special, sacred. For me, it was a gift to be a part of my Grandmother’s final months; a gift that touched me so deeply I can remember the moments as if they occurred last week. As the strength of my families Matriarch dwindled, I watched as my mother took up the role. I learned the steps and watched knowing they would one day be my own. With gratitude I will be proud to take up these lessons and care for my own Mother. I can only hope that I will be able to garnish the same strength and tenderness that the women before me displayed.
Thank you for your words. The remembrance of these special moments of one remarkable woman’s end, while difficult, help to make up the fabric of my soul. How truly lucky I am.
When I was in nursing school, I encountered a nurse and nursing assistant who acted in that same manner. As the patient was silent but with tears in his eyes, I watched them leave and vowed never to be that nurse. 12 years later, all of my career spent in ICU, I have seen a lot of death, some dignified, some not. Throughout it all I have done my best to preserve the dignity of my patients, the same way I will do for my own family when that day comes. Thanks for sharing your story.
When my grandmother was dying of cancer a few weeks ago, I feel like I got to see the difference between nurses who were there for the paycheck, and nurses who were there because they cared.
It’s a big difference. A good nurse is a creature above and beyond any concept of value that I have. So, thanks for striving to be that.
Thank you. I saw the horrendous treatment my grandmother suffered when she was in and out of nursing homes. Unfortunately she died in one before arrangements could be made to bring her home. A few months later my dad ended up in a coma. We knew there was no hope but rather than have him and the family go through the nursing home experience all over again, he was brought home and Hospice was called in. We promised my mom we would never allow her to go through it either should it come down to it. Now part of the promise may have involved a pillow, smothering, and sleep but… you have to honor your mother’s wishes right.
I was 12 when my grandmother died. In her final days (which she was fortunate enough to spend at home surrounded by family), my parents took me to go see her and so they could make arrangements. I remember standing over her, gently doling water from a straw because she couldn’t do it herself, and wanting to climb into her hospital bed with her, to hold her as she held me when I was born.
There are a lot of things that I do not like to think back on when it comes to those few days, there were too many scars made for such an immature kid to carry on her heart, but holding her hand and stroking her cheek as I gave her water still stands as one of the hardest and most rewarding moments in my life.
Thank you for sharing yourself here. Your beautiful words mean more to me than you will ever know.
There is a song, “What Sarah Said” by Death Cab For Cutie with the line – “Love is watching someone die.” I have a hard time listening to that song, but that is a hard truth about love. I can only imagine the love that passed between grandmother and granddaughter during those terrible painful moments. What a treasure you both received.
Thanks for sharing your moments.
Thank you so much for sharing this.
Oh Liz, thank you. In a strange way, you brought my grandmother to me today. She died not quite two years ago, and I was fortunate enough to be able to spend her last two days with her. I am so grateful that she was able to have home hospice care (and the hospice nurses we *almost* universally wonderful, thankfully), and many family members with her in her last days of life. Nine of us were around her when she died.
I wasn’t one of the ones who cared for her physically as you did for your grandmother at the end of her life, but one of the most beautiful, sacred and meaningful moments of my life was helping the hospice nurse care for her just after she died: lifting her, dressing her in something nice to go to the funeral home, holding her as the nurse removed the tubes, etc. I kept my hand on her arm as we waited for them to come for her, keeping at least one small part of her warm for just a little longer. I didn’t expect it to be beautiful – so much of the end of life is painful and ugly – but it was. Achingly beautiful, in the midst of all the sadness. And oh, you’ve taken me back to those days for a little while today. Thank you.
Thank you Elizabeth for sharing her with us. I was 17 when I had the joy and honor to be in the room as my grandmother “Ma” left us and went on to be with the Lord. I think we can all learn from yours and mine and others that no matter how long we are on this earth we can make a difference. It can be quietly or it can be a sonic boom but we can and we must. It’s our legacy.
Humanity is not for wimps.
*LIKE*
Wow. Your words are a beautiful reminder. That’s living up to who you are, with courage, if I might add another quality.
Your words made me cry. I have been in this situation with my own grandmother and when you describe yours she reminds me a lot of mine. Growing up there wasn’t a lot of hugs and kisses and very few I love you’s, it was one of those things that you just knew without it being said. She was usually blunt and got to the point whenever she wanted to say something, but I loved her so much. In her final days I helped wash her, helped keep her warm, put lotion on her very chaffed body and though during this time not many words were said between us there was so many times I wanted to crawl into bed with her and hold her and tell her how much I loved her, though I never did now that she is gone I really wish I would have. I wish I would have just jumped and hoped for her waiting arms, instead I was always so worried about her not wanting to be touched, not wanting to hurt her more then she already was. Two days before she passed she called me to her and asked me for a kiss, in which I happily gave her, she then pulled me close and told me I had always been the answers to her prayers and I thanked her and told her that I believed though that she had always been the answer to all of mine. That was the last conversation I had with her and I will forever hold that in my heart. Thank you for posting about your grandmother, it brings so much warmth to my heart when I read it.
I just spent the day with my parents, who are both beginning to lose their health (one more rapidly than the other). I thought back to this post and realized what might lie not too far off in my future. I hope I have the courage to remember this again when the time comes. Thanks, Liz. Amazing as always.
Beautiful. Thank you.
Wow.. powerful.
Thank you for sharing, these are things I never thought about, however I can only hope that I offer the same love to my relatives when the time comes.