"There is an infection in her lungs, but we don't know what kind."
"Actually, we aren't really sure if there is one, or- if there is- if that is what is causing the problem at all."
"Now she has viral pneumonia... and we actually can't cure that, so..."
Then her one good kidney was attacked by the infection and the drugs used to try and cure her; it then stopped working, too.
Since they were no longer being flushed out by the kidney, her body began to swell as the IV fluids she was given had no place to go. Her elbows became a dimple in the side of her arm. I couldn't find her ankles. Her whole body doubled or tripled in size until her skin began to rip as the fluids screamed for escape.
I arrived at the hospital on Wednesday and couldn't help but think about what I would do should I ever be in the same situation. I think we were all thinking that way. I decided that I would cry and cry and cry, while laying on top of Mr. Peaches in his hospital bed, and refuse to let him go. I would stay like that for days, for months, for years. I would hold his warm hands and kiss his warm forehead. I don't think I could bring myself to let him go.
My grandfather, however, is different. He's older, and so maybe that has something to do with it. Perspective. Empathy. Understanding. Seven days ago my grandfather made the brave and compassionate decision to take his wife off the ventilator and let her go. To never kiss her warm forehead again. To never hold her warm hands.
I understand now why people are religious. I'm not, myself, but as I, my mother, my two aunts, a younger cousin, my younger brother, and my grandfather stood in a circle around her bed and watched his wife struggle to take a breath every 30 seconds... and then every 45 seconds... and then take her last... I wished I had my own God to whom to pray. I wished that I believed she was going to a better life, to a bright and happy world of peace and love. As a religious man, I'm glad my grandfather was able to cling to that image in his head. "A better place." When her heart finally stopped I- we all, I think- felt relief. It took ten minutes and it felt like four days.
On Sunday we buried her. From the church service held at the church in which they were so involved, we walked a few hundred feet to her final resting place. I was comforted by the idea that he would be able to take flowers to her gravesite each week as he attended service. That people who loved her would be able to step right outside and give themselves a minute to think about her. That she was laid to rest in a tiny rural church cemetery, one that- to me, at least- represented their rural lives together.
Friendly reminder: Not one of us is invincible or immortal.
