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Last week, after a few close calls, my grandmother was put into hospice care. She’s old, frail and in constant pain. But her situation is different from, let’s say my grandfather’s, who’s condition worsened noticeably and was gone within a day of being in hospice. In fact, Grammy is still very much feeling like she did yesterday, last week, a year ago.

It was her own choice to enter into hospice care. A combination of her edema and its treatments has caused her unbearable pain and complications, from the skin on her legs splitting to life-threatening hyperammonemia. She’s been rendered comatose, she’s developed infections — one of which sent her to the hospital close to death. Her heart has been damaged, and her body has suffered from the ravages.

Regardless of how dire things are though, Grammy’s still as sharp as a tack. She can barely speak through the labored breathing, but she still laughs, jokes and is very aware of everyone around her.

But she’s tired, so she spoke with the head nurse at the home. “Anyway,” she said. “I can’t be cured. And I don’t want to go back to the hospital. They can’t do anything different than you can.” So the nurse suggested she be put into hospice care.

It’s difficult, of course, but all we can do is support my grandma’s decisions. As she told her siblings, “Instead of being upset with me and saying I’ve given up, you should be happy for me. Soon I’ll be with God and I’ll be in heaven and I’ll be at peace.”

There’s no telling how much time we have with her. But the funeral arrangements have been made, and Grammy has told my mom that she wants to wear the blue dress she wore to my sister’s wedding. And she wants me to write her obituary.

It’s a difficult task, I know; I wrote my grandfather’s. The memories, the emotions that fill your mind as you sit at the computer just trying to type something coherent. It’s a miracle anything gets written at all.

Then there’s the fact that I live more than 500 miles away. I would love to share in my grandma’s last precious moments, but I can’t. My mom tells me that Grammy knows I wish I could be there for her. “Tell mijo not to worry about me,” she says. “I’m OK, I’m just a little bit swollen.” Her words make me smile. It reminds me of when I was a kid. Whenever she received bad news, she’d have a quick keening sob then resolve to be strong, “My heart hurts, but I’ll be OK. It’s got plenty of scar tissue.”

…

I meant to post this weeks ago, but never felt quite right saying these things. But tonight I received a phone call saying that I should be prepared because something is going on. My sister said that I should say a prayer and wait by the phone.

I have no idea what’s going on. It could be something routine, and it could be that it’s her time. Personally, I feel like I’ve made peace with whatever happens. Grammy’s tired. She loves the life she lived, but she’s eager for the next great adventure. A few weeks ago, I had a dream where two of my great aunts who passed away years ago came to comfort me. They made me feel like it was alright to let her go. That they would take care of Bessie, just as she had taken care of all of us. At the time, I woke up sobbing uncontrollably. I just knew that it was her time. I didn’t want it to be true, but I felt it in my heart.

Now, I am at peace with it. I know she’s ready. I know she has faith that she, as well as the rest of us, will be OK.

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