Lessons from Grammy, Part II: Her Voice

My Grammy is dying in front of my eyes. I'm on the night shift, laying across three chairs I put together for a makeshift bed. My aunt and mom are sharing a twin bed in the room. I'm laying parallel to a body that is making noises I've never heard it make before, and I've spent many, many nights next to Grammy. 

She's to the stage where air is passing across her vocal cords in the midst of deep shallow coughs and that death rattle that is so very real. There are extended periods of time where she isn't breathing at all. 15 seconds, 20 seconds, 30 seconds. Earlier today (well, yesterday now), she went almost two minutes before taking a full breath. When that happened, we were watching for the vein in her neck that shows her pulse so well. It kept on. Her heart just keeps keeping on. She has a McInnes heart; they don't give up.

I'm trying to decide if I would recognize her if I didn't know this body before me housed the woman I love so deeply. I recognize features. That nose, the square jawline, the crooked pinkies that match my own, that top lip, well, lack of top lip - also a McInnes thing, though certainly more of a Maxwell or Brown trait if you trace the genetic makeup.

So many parts of this are so hard. This. Is. Hard. But she is mine, and there is nowhere I would rather be than right here seeing her through this transition. 

Even though so much is unfamiliar, so much new territory for our relationship; it feels good to be seeing her through. I don't know how much longer this part will last - this part that will fade away into the next phase where I will practice speaking between worlds to hear her.

And in the midst of all of these unknowns we are walking through, there is something comforting. I know she's not trying to speak, but the little glimpses of her voice that come through every now and again, that combination of air moving across vocal cords that are uniquely hers - I will never hear that sound again. Not in realtime. (I do have a pretty ridiculous amount of voice messages from her saved on my phone.) No, not words, nor phrases, or even thoughts are coming through, but I'm translating those sounds into words I've heard so often:

"I love you"

"Treasure of my heart"

"Blessing" 

"Mama and Daddy"

"Irl"

"Gospel"

"Home"

"Breezy"

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Lessons from Grammy, Part I: Leo

When Jake and I came to see Grammy at her new assisted living home in Arizona, she mentioned Leo. Leo is another resident at this home, and she talked about how they would make eyes at each other, and then one day he kissed her on the forehead. 

As she's telling me about Leo, I'm sitting on the end of her bed blushing and giggling like I'm the one experiencing this fresh new romance right along with her.

She wondered if she was being too bold in her flirtation and what people would think of her. I told her that at 93, she should take what she could get. Her eyes were so bright and her voice animated while talking about him. This was in June.

Just a few months earlier, in February, we thought she was a goner. It wasn't the first time we thought she was on her way out, but it was the time everyone gathered. After that health scare and the decline in her mobility, she was moved from California with my aunts to her current home in Arizona where more people could help care for her 24/7. 

I was so nervous for her making the move and not knowing the people she would be with, but being here gave her a renewed sense of purpose, not only as a friend and loving on other people, but being loved by Leo too.

Her health has been in rapid decline since Saturday. I came yesterday. She can't speak, but will occasionally get a few words out. Yesterday Leo came in held her hand and stroked her arm while telling her sweet nothings in Spanish. She responded with smiles and bright eyes. He left in tears. There is something so powerful about knowing what you mean to someone - knowing you are loved.

That is part of the magic and power of Grammy for me: I have never once doubted how she feels about me and what I mean to her. It has always been love. 

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