I arrived early in the morning again on Sunday. Gram was resting peacefully now; her breathing was still heavy and deep, but that was characteristic of her when she slept. She always slept with her mouth wide open, too, but today there was a stiffness about it – as if it was stuck that way – like she couldn’t close it if she tried. The end was drawing near. I knew this. And at this moment, more than ever, I found myself drawn to her just as I was as a child – longing to be close to her for comfort and strength. It was ironic that someone who was now in such a vulnerable state could still provide me that same comfort and strength she always did. But it was her true essence – her soul or spirit, more so, that provided me with what I needed now, not her physical presence. Her essence was still very much here and that bond - that ever so amazing bond we shared - drew me to her. It did now as it did all those years ago being a troubled child growing up in a crazy household. Whether it was fear of a nightmare, a monster under my bed, or thunder, she was always there to comfort and reassure me. It’s an untouchable but real force.
I can’t remember exactly who worked what shifts that day at ManorCare, but I know at some point, Tracy was Gram’s nurse. I didn’t know Tracy well, but she knew Gram of course - everyone did. I had talked to her on the phone a few times over the years when Gram fell, injured herself, or got mixed up in some type of trouble. What I do remember is that day was filled with lots of kindness and compassion, much of which came from Tracy. She was very kind and attentive.
Throughout the day, too, just like the day before, there were visitors – other staff members and residents, paying respects, saying good-bye. There was even one young lady, Resa, who no longer worked at ManorCare, but wanted to come and say good-bye. “I took care of her for two years. Of course I wanted to say good-bye.”
I sat with Gram all morning. It was peaceful and calm and quiet in room 141. Nurses and aides came in throughout the morning to check on Gram and me. They asked if I needed anything and once again, wheeled in a cart full of drinks and snacks.
I found solace in the quiet of the room and the perfect rhythm of Gram’s breathing. It relaxed me and allowed my mind to wander. Memories flooded my mind and images of my life with Gram flashed before me as I took an emotional journey backward. Some memories made me smile and others made me cry, but they all made me thankful – thankful to have known Gram and thankful to have been a part of her life.
I recalled Friday night at the hospital and remembered how making the decision to not proceed with the transfusion made me oddly calm and at peace with things. I still was. I knew now that I was losing Gram and I was ok with that for her sake. I knew I had done right by always her by putting her first, considering what was best for her, and doing my best to represent and advocate for her when she couldn’t. I had no guilt; no regrets. I did, however, have deep sadness.
What I wasn’t at peace with, however, was what would happen to me after. I had never been able to imagine my life without Gram and soon I would be living that life. What would become of me? What will I spend my time doing? I hadn’t allowed myself much time on these thoughts because it hurt to do so. Furthermore, I needed to be present for Gram. I wanted to experience every moment of this process with her and not miss a thing. I knew I’d be OK, though; Gram taught me how. I’d be sad and lost for a while; I’d have to take things one day at time. But notwithstanding my need to focus now, I couldn’t deny that the strong, brave, front I was putting up for Gram was being challenged constantly by underlying emotions regarding my future. They pinged at me and despite my best efforts to fight them, would unexpectedly surface at times and I’d find myself sobbing. I cried a lot that week.
I left ManorCare around lunch time. Gram was despondent and appeared unconscious as she had been since Saturday. I needed to buy her a new long-sleeved, white, button-down blouse for her viewing and I became driven to do so. I wanted her to be in white and it had to be crisply pressed. Being a presser by trade, she wouldn’t have it any other way. Even at home, she always pressed her blouses and looked neat. In my search, I went to Kmart, Target, Kohl’s, and Walmart before finally finding what I wanted – the perfect blouse. I took it home and washed it (Gram always said you should wash new clothes before wearing them.) I would press it tomorrow.
When I returned around 3 p.m., Tracy stopped me and called me to the nurse’s station. “We were trying to get a hold of you. If there are other family members you want to have here, you may want to call them.” I already knew what was happening, but hearing this made it, again, very real.
Gram’s blood pressure had been dropping and her pulse increasing. Throughout the afternoon, her breathing had slowed and become shallow and erratic. Between each breath, there was a 15-20 second pause. For some odd reason, I recorded Gram’s vitals throughout the morning.
10:15 am: Blood pressure 80/40, pulse 116
11:30 am: Blood pressure 103/50, pulse 99
I contacted the family. Michelle came over right away. Paul, Aubrey, and Andrew came later. I suggested that Heather and Mom not come because they had a long drive and at that point, I didn’t think they’d make it before Gram died.
We all sat together and we waited.
At 9 p.m., Gram’s blood pressure had dropped to 60/30 and her pulse was 114. And at 10 p.m., it was around the same. Her blood oxygen had dropped to 86%, despite the concentrator. The nurse turned up the oxygen, knowing that it would make us feel better.
Sandy, the night shift nurse came into the room, introduced herself, and immediately asked if we needed anything. We didn’t. “We’re going to take good care of Gramma,” she said.
“Thank you,” I replied, welling up with tears. (The expression of love and compassion that I experienced from the staff at ManorCare touched me in a way that I was often brought to tears. “You do God’s work,” I’ve often said to them.
“Thank you,” I replied, welling up with tears. (The expression of love and compassion that I experienced from the staff at ManorCare touched me in a way that I was often brought to tears. “You do God’s work,” I’ve often said to them.
Michelle and her family left after 11 p.m.. “You should go, too, Mike,” Michelle suggested.
“I’m not going yet. I’ve been with her for this whole journey and I want to see her through to the end.”
“I’m not going yet. I’ve been with her for this whole journey and I want to see her through to the end.”
After Michelle left, I sat next to Gram’s bed, which was slightly raised at the head. In that position, I was able to somewhat comfortably rest my head on the bed next to hers, while sitting in the chair next to her. Gram’s breathing was very slow now. Every inhale was long and slow and after each, there was a long delay. I anticipated every corresponding exhale and wondered if it would be the last. I tried to sleep a little, but couldn’t. I dozed off, but quickly awakened. I didn’t want to miss the end. This went on for the next few hours. Periodically, I’d check Gram’s fingers and toes and they had become cold, and bluish in color. Sandy was in and out administering the meds and checking on her, too.
Around 2 a.m., as Sandy was giving Gram her meds, I raised my head from the bed to hear her say, “Her breathing has stabilized.” I looked at Sandy in a confused and surprised way, but realized as I listened that she was right. I had been told by hospice nurses before that often the dying don’t want to die in front of their loved ones. I know this was the case with Chubb’s when he waited for Michelle to leave and within minutes took his last breath. I didn’t expect it with Gram. But then again, she always protected me.
I looked at Sandy and back at Gram, who, just as Sandy said, was breathing normally – as if she were sleeping in her normal way. “I think I’m going to go,” I said immediately as I realized what was happening. “I don’t think she wants me here.” I believed even now, Gram was protecting me. I gathered up my things, dimmed the light in Gram’s room, and left.
Around 2 a.m., as Sandy was giving Gram her meds, I raised my head from the bed to hear her say, “Her breathing has stabilized.” I looked at Sandy in a confused and surprised way, but realized as I listened that she was right. I had been told by hospice nurses before that often the dying don’t want to die in front of their loved ones. I know this was the case with Chubb’s when he waited for Michelle to leave and within minutes took his last breath. I didn’t expect it with Gram. But then again, she always protected me.
I looked at Sandy and back at Gram, who, just as Sandy said, was breathing normally – as if she were sleeping in her normal way. “I think I’m going to go,” I said immediately as I realized what was happening. “I don’t think she wants me here.” I believed even now, Gram was protecting me. I gathered up my things, dimmed the light in Gram’s room, and left.
When I got home, I logged into my computer and there on Gram’s Facebook page, was a lovely, touching tribute: Tracy had posted a photo of several of the ManorCare staff members conducting a toast using a caffeine drink – the same drinks that Gram loved to steal from them. The caption said, “Cheers to Gram Berberich. We love you!”
I wept.
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