Grandma Slip Sliding Away

Mafalda on her 90th birthday

I never know how to talk about death. I hate how everyone uses euphemisms: heading toward the light, slipping away. At the same time, it's hard to use the words that truly describe the situation. Death. Dying. A final shutting down of the systems. The last beat of a heart. The last flicker of thought that will ever happen on this earth.

My 92 year old grandmother is dying.

Part of me says 'finally'. She's been mostly unresponsive for months now, just sitting in her chair with well-meaning caregivers who do her hair, put on her jewelry, wheel her around and spoon mechanical soft food into her mouth. She is a vain woman. She would hate to live this way.

Part of me can't believe that very soon, maybe even as I write this, I'm going to have only one living grandmother.

She's officially comfort care (another euphemism) and M. and I are heading down tomorrow. I debated if we should go down at all, but it seems proper to see her, even if she doesn't know we're there. It seems right to in the very least be present.

One life begins, another ends. I had always hoped she would make it long enough to see her great grandchild. Maybe somehow she knew that in the least part of her is going to be carried on.