Sitting Vigil

Hubby's grandmother is a fighter - all four feet ten inches of her. She has spent the past four days with her willpower tightly clenched around life, defying medical reason, going out just as she lived - on her own terms. No use leading her to the light... she'll let go when she is good and ready.

We tried to offer MIH some respite - she has been holding a one woman vigil, unwilling to leave her mother's side just in case she would pass away alone. When we arrived, MIH was dressed in a flamboyant turquoise outfit of blouse and capri pants. Apparently they let her shower at the residence and the only clean clothes at her disposal were her mother's. Hilarious when you realize that my MIH is at least five foot nine or ten and her mother is under five feet tall - hence the "capris". Yes, there is still humour to be found in the hallowed halls of nursing homes and bedside at deathbeds.

Nana was no longer resting peacefully - but rather, waking up after only short naps bewildered and distressed. Her squeals of terror were jarring and it took MIH's constant reassuring and kisses to convince her that she was safe. Not our idea of "making her comfortable".

And so the cycle continues. The end of our lives is very similar to the beginning. Helping someone die is reminiscent of child birth with its excruciating pain and unpredictability. And it's something you have to go through to get through. At the other end: bitter-sweetness. In death there will be no baby, but there will be a life to celebrate.