The picture is from six weeks ago (on baby tour), and I shot a bunch of video of her telling stories about Holland during WWII. Three days after we left, they found the tumor.
So, they operated. The doctor failed to get all of it, and the recovery never happened. Cutting open an octagnerian can do that. In and out of the hospital. Then back in again. My aunt's been living there since.
She said Oma was really weak and disoriented when they admitted her.
"Do you know your name?"
"Nonky Dronkers."
"Do you know where you are?"
"No."
"Do you know the date?"
"No."
"Do you know who the president is?"
"That idiot, Bush."
***
My mom is taking a class about care for the dying. Physiological needs, mental preperation, various cultural/familial norms, pain management, etc.
Dying people rub their hands a lot. Not against skin, but against the bed sheets or their shirt. Something about the tactile feel of it. It's just something dying people do.
The body refuses water and food. Sometimes the family wants to force-hydrate terminal patients. But the body just doesn't want food or water because it can't handle it.
The hands and feet get cold as the heart starts to triage all the non-vital gear. The brain goes in and out of delusions. There's a lot of mental work that gets done right before you die. Dying people hallucinate; they see people who aren't in the room. Let them see who they want to see, says my mom's textbook.
As the death approaches, breathing starts to really skip around. A lot of tiny, rapid breaths for a minute. Then, maybe nothing for a minute. When this starts, the end is near. Less than two days, for sure.
***
When we got to Kaiser on Tuesday, the doctors had already given her between two and seven days left. Her heart and lungs are really strong, but her kidneys had shut down. She was barely urinating, and her ankles were softball-swollen. Her hands were cold. She'd lost a lot of weight.
Everybody wanted to to be in the room when we brought the baby in.
As soon as she saw Sasha, she lit up. Full sentences, sitting upright, she kept saying how she was "...so stunning. So stunning. Such a beautiful girl."
We perched Sasha on Oma's lap. Four generations between them, looking at each other from opposite ends of life. They smiled at each other. You could almost see the energy flowing between them. They really look like each other, too.
They both got tired quickly, so we sat out in the hallway. One guy down the hall cried out periodically. An IV machine's alarm chirped for a half hour. There were not a lot of families present.
We went in and out of her room for several hours. Her conversations were not longer than a few sentences. I told her that Libby got indicted, and she mumbled out something like "Cheney's toast."
***
The Plan for the next day was to get her home so she could die.
The move itself was pretty dangerous, and there was some debate whether or not she'd survive it. But getting her home was critical. She'd already specified where she wanted her bed to face ("So I can see the Golden Gate.") It was a 200-degree view of the Bay Area.
Before she was moved, we went up to the house to make sure everything looked presentable. We swept the leaves out of the pool and watered the plants. Her bed was made up and pictures were put on nearby tables. "That's her dying bed," I had to point out. I'm a moron.
The medical transport showed up. They got her off the yellow travel gurney into the carrying chair and up the stairs into bed. The oxygen tanks were hooked up, and her stomach-drip was working. Mission accomplished. She slept, we ate lunch.
We had to leave soon, which meant goodbye. What do you say?
***
Her life, while not always easy, was epic.
Born in post-WWI Holland, survived WWII, got arrested on her wedding night by Nazis, her new husband was in the Dutch resistance (as a radio operator), immigrated to America. Philadelphia was humid and Delaware was boring, so they packed up for LA. Got a flat in Berkeley and they were too poor to fix it, so Berkeley it was. They got their English skills going and worked their way up. My grandfather died (Cancer twenty years ago at 69 and she still misses him. That's the story.
But being in her house and seeing photos from the 20's, 50's, and 70's, was different this time. For the first time, I could see her as an amazing individual who hated crooked politicians and loved Mozart, who had a weakness for Euro-crap and a crisp sense of style. As a mom who probably shouldn't have sent her kids to school in Dutch outfits. As a young daughter of a nurse who looked a lot like Sasha.
I've told folks that she's dying, and everbody says "Oh, I'm so sorry." I know they mean it. But I can't really agree. I know it's been hard on her since Opa died, but the big picture was amazingly sunny.
I know that I'm going to die, and I should be so lucky to have it all happen the way it's happening for her. Great life, family all around, no months of languishing, no "maybe she'll pull through...". It's all been simple.
***
I sat with her for a bit, just her and me looking at the Golden Gate. Then some more family trickled back in. My mom and I cried.
She woke up a little. I told her that I had to leave, and that maybe I'd see her later. She said "goodbye". I told her I loved her, thanked her for everything, and told her to enjoy the view.
***
My mom called this morning to say that yesterday afternoon she really started to decline. She'll text me if things change.
1 comment:
You done good, Mike. If Oma is proud of you, you're doing the right thing.
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