Visiting Hours

"Well you've sure learned your way around," she remarked. I braced my heart and tried to choose carefully from the flurry of words swarming my brain.  As we slowed for the next turn in the road, I softly replied, "Yep. I figured I had to."
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September 2010: It was mid-month and two weeks had past since my summer job drew to a close. As was my custom for such down-time, I packed a bag and headed north on Hwy 101...to Grandma's house. I guess I've been driving that route for about 10 years. An oceanside road to safe and loving arms. Destination: acceptance and indulgence. A guaranteed solid night's sleep. After a handful of hours on the road, I arrived at the familiar little house and was greeted by her familiar cheer. The only thing was, it was past 1pm and she was still in her PJ's- thoroughly exhausted from mere breathing. She also announced (and apologized profusely) that she hadn't made it to the grocery store and had little more than a banana and protein bars. For a woman who had always kept the refrigerator packed for only one guest (much less overflowing for a house-full) and was a human ticker tape for local activities and fun, this was a different day completely. 


We had all just learned that, again, cancer was active within her body. And we would all soon learn that after more than a decade of fighting, God was taking her home. 


I spent most of my trip observing her. She coughed so hard and so often that sometimes, especially in the middle of the night, I wasn't sure if she would catch her breath. We talked and watched tv. She napped and I made a dash for the grocery store. We visited with other family and rejoiced in small victories like food cravings! or 30 minutes of talking without a cough attack! But at night I cried, knowing I would never sleep in that familiar room again or wake up to the sound of floorboards creaking beneath her healthy stride. 


Each day I drove us into the town where the rest of the family lives. She loved taking the back-roads but, for the life of me, I could not be sure that I knew the way. At every upcoming street I'd ask, "Is this where I turn?", "Here?", "No, it's the next one isn't it? Oh, this one?!" One day she was having such a coughing attack she could barely shake her head, much less express "yes" or "no." I felt helpless and desperate. Inside I cried, "you can't be sick; I don't know how to do this without you!" During my next visits, I had no choice but to navigate solo. "Remember what she told you," went my self-talk. I figured it was time to remember everything she'd ever told me, because soon it would be up to me to show returns on her investment. I had to learn...and remember. 


September-November 3, 2010: Immediately following my visit, Grandma moved in with my aunt, uncle and cousins, conveniently located 2 doors away from my dad, stepmom, brother and sister. In the weeks that followed, the family pulled together tremendously on her behalf, congregating every night for Prime Time TV shows, talk about the school day and local sporting events. Sometimes Grandma had the strength to engage, sometimes she dozed in the midst of it all. We are all fairly confident that regardless of her energy level, her heart was gladdened by the nearness of family and the exciting buzz of life. 


By the grace of my open schedule and my husband's support, I was able to adopt a visitation schedule of approximately every other week. Grandma's condition merited the support of Hospice almost immediately and I gained motivation and purpose from the opportunity to be of help to her and the family. With each week came new challenges and progressions, placing us at junctures that tested the strength of our hearts and our faith as we faced the side of life that is so hard to accept. We were pre-grieving, which is a strange and devastating existence. The dance between Present and Future is dizzying. You cannot absorb enough of the present to make up for the future loss and yet you don't want to miss what's being offered by the present because you're so absorbed by anticipation. 


In any case, I will always cherish those last weeks. I did her nails and read to her. We enjoyed the warmth of beautiful, sunny days. I fixed her cereal or egg breakfast and chuckled as she often requested cake for lunch. She chuckled and lovingly dubbed me "the water girl" as we both realized I was never far behind with her bottle of water. I told her my secret dreams for the future and she told me her favorite memories from the past. At times I'd feel her gaze linger over me and I'd see the tears fall on her cheeks. One night she cried, telling me she wanted so badly to see my babies. To hold them and love them. To laugh at their (no-doubt) nappy little heads. I cried to her once- about not having her home to go to anymore. But when I saw her pull herself from dying patient to strong grandmother for my sake, I decided my tears needed to be kept to myself. This was time for us to be strong for her, not the other way around. Change was coming and this was no time to wimp out. 


It's funny how everyone deals with grief differently. In the beginning, we ate. There never seemed to be a shortage of cookies, cakes or pies. Dessert was key because it meant that people would hang around a little longer. There's no rushing out when you know dessert is on its way. And that's where we were fairly comfortable for a while. As Grandma's condition worsened, however, we started eating a little less, exercising and thinking up unnecessary errands just to get some fresh air. We went to bed a little earlier but didn't sleep well. The teenagers were in and out, mostly trying to avoid contact with watery eyes. We busied ourselves with dusting, wiping down the counters and preparing and then cleaning meals that people may or may not have been eating. Just a day before she passed, we all seemed to be at the peak of our stress: restless and holding our breath. 


November 3, 2010: Grandma had not spoken an intelligible word in about a day. She had tried but as her food and water intake fell to zero, her ideas became confused and her tongue tied so that we could not understand what she said. It seemed that she fell into silence out of frustration, perhaps letting herself go in light of lost communication. She lay in bed, almost non-responsive except for slight moanings or groanings if she was uncomfortable or occasionally, we thought, if she agreed with something we said. The family had retired for the evening but, being on 11pm medication duty that night, I grabbed a book and sat in the recliner next to her bed. A radio on her nightstand streamed soft melodies of worship. The book was, "90 Minutes in Heaven" by Don Piper. It is a man's account of his death, 90 minutes in Heaven, and return to life. What struck me most profoundly were his descriptions of Heaven and its loveliness. My heart felt full and hopeful and I knew I wanted Grandma to leave this decayed body and experience such glory. I rubbed her head gently and as I became conscious of the soft music, I said, "You know, I was just thinking that soon you'll get to hear the angels singing. How great will that be?" She moaned in the affirmative. After giving her the 11:00 meds, I said good-night but left the radio on. 


November 4, 2010: 7:00am- my alarm clock went off. I responded by hitting the snooze button and lay there trying to will myself awake. I heard the quiet sounds of my cousins getting ready to leave for school. I squinted through the clouds that had gathered out the window. And then my aunt knocked on the door, apologizing for waking me up but would I mind sitting with Grandma, as her breathing was especially labored this morning? I threw on a sweatshirt and assumed my post while my aunt helped her kids prepare for the day. As soon as I walked in the door, feelings of hope ("maybe she'll be in a better place soon") and dread ("ok, time to keep it together, Jaclyn") hit me simultaneously. Her breathing was loud and labored. Her chest and stomach rose up and then fell hard. She was moaning a bit but I could tell her spirit was already nearly gone. These were merely the last engine sputters before the breakdown. After getting advice from Hospice about making her as comfortable as possible, I resorted to rubbing her head and repeating, "It's okay, Grandma. Just let go. Let goooooo." I fought back tears, willing myself to bring her through this and deal with my end later. At one point I thought to check her pulse because I remembered that I have a hard time finding my own pulse unless I've just run a 5K. Neck pulse- nope. My neck pulse- not really. Dang it! Wrist pulse- check. *sigh. I continued with the head rubbing for a few more minutes and then decided to check her pulse again. Neck pulse- nope. My neck pulse- sort of. My wrist pulse- check. Her wrist pulse- no. Come on, Jaclyn!! Her wrist pulse- no... Hospice had told us to take notice of her nails. A grayish blue color means... I decided it was time to gather myself again and find my aunt. I'd thought I'd just heard my youngest cousin leave for school. I remember fumbling with some words about talking to Hospice, reporting that her breathing had calmed and now, "she's being pretty still." The time was approximately 8:00am and Grandma was with Jesus. 
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The following days, weeks and months have been full, as the true weight of Loss settles over me. On November 5th I woke up feeling instantly empty and devoid of purpose. After the funeral I was tired of constant sadness, questioning the motives of everyone's tears and feeling annoyed. During the holidays I wanted to experience the joy of the season, knowing how much she loved family gatherings and traditions. And now...I just miss her. I find myself thinking often of those last few conversations we had and I strain to hear her voice say my name. I try to remember the last time I saw her when she was relatively strong and I draw strength from her example. I'll admit that it's hard to have so much down-time in my schedule and feel that all I can do is grieve or feel trapped by a creative and motivational block due to grieving. But I know better than that. My life was saved, in a way, by her (and my Grandpa's) participation in it. I am more completely me because of their unconditional love and support. I have much to be glad for because I was privileged to experience some of the best years of their lives, during which they so greatly protected and enriched mine. I have much to hope for and memories to honor. 


In Loving Memory of Marilyn Bell Gipson
 Phillipians 4:13