I found out later that I left about fifteen minutes before Nana--my father's mother--finally died.
She had been in Orlando on an actual date--one of her first since Papa died a few years earlier. She got a headache that never went away. A massive stroke hit her out of left field.
After trying every treatment the excellent Catholic hospital she had been taken to suggested, the family decided the best thing for her would be, in accordance with her wishes, to take her to Hernando-Pasco Hospice, where she passed in peace and without pain.
For my branch of the family, it was a relief. We had seen how the nightmare plays out when end-of-life plans aren't clearly specified.
I don't think I've ever written about this before, so bear with me as I tell you the story of how my grandfather spent almost a decade dying of a fatal stroke, for want of a clearly written piece of paper.
::
It wasn't his first stroke that really took my Grandpa--my mother's father--from us, but his second. After the first, his speech and mobility were reduced but not gone; one of his arms still worked fine, and he could say his wife's name. In fact, the only word I ever remember him saying was "Mimi," my grandmother's name.
When the Big One hit, he was at home with her. She found him on the floor and, being conscientious after the first stroke, recognized what was happening. So she did the most responsible thing she could have, in accordance with what he wanted: she called their children who lived in the area and told them to come say goodbye.
Now, I've been in some family feuds, but this was the largest. Because one of the kids, while rushing to Grandpa's side, called an ambulance.
---
I should interrupt now to point out one salient fact: a LOT of my family are lawyers. My grandfather literally wrote the book on practicing law in Connecticut, and one of his sons has co-authored the most recent edition. So of course he did indeed have a living will, asking that no "heroic measures" be taken to prolong his life--a term that turned out to be sadly ambiguous. He'd never had extensive conversations with his doctors about how he wanted that phrase construed, or what he considered "heroic." The penalty for that omission was seven years imprisonment.
One other caveat: This story is a source of deep contention within my family even today. I may miss a few details in writing about what happened next, as I was too young at the time to know what was unfolding, so I'm going to avoid using names and I'll try to limit the following to my own personal recollections. If any of my family should read this and take exception, I apologize in advance for offending them--this is, understandably, a touchy subject still.
---
The paramedics came. Despite being at Death's door, Grandpa somehow managed to find the strength to use his good arm to push off the oxygen mask they'd placed on his face. They put it back on. He pushed it off again, then took my grandmother's hand and kissed it.
Nobody really doubts now that he was ready to die at that moment.
As they say in Britain, "the House divided." There were nine children and my grandmother involved in this decision. The older children argued that my grandmother had to let Grandpa go, that it was his time and that keeping him alive would go against his wishes. The younger children argued that he likely wouldn't be on a ventilator (he mostly wasn't, though he did end up with a laryngectomy stoma), and that he wouldn't need a feeding tube (he mostly didn't--he was fed non-solid foods by hand). But nobody wanted to say goodbye to him.
So they decided to try and save his life.
They somewhat succeeded.
When I think about Grandpa, I think of a place in Greenwich called the Nathaniel Witherell, a municipally owned non-profit where I saw him more frequently than anywhere else. It's really a beautiful campus, and he received excellent care, my grandmother visiting him most every day.
That's the part that's hardest to think about--her seeing him every day. The stroke took away his speech for good, and he couldn't so much as nod or shake his head. He only had one way of showing the world he was still in that body, trapped:
He cried.
Whenever I visited him, my sister or my mother and I would walk into his room and he'd see us, and he'd start to sob. I've seen my own face in the mirror while weeping before, and I think those moments are when I look most like him--my eyes squeeze tight and my mouth curls to form a sad smile in the same way his did every time I saw him. But when he cried there was no real sound, just a whisper of air passing through his stoma as the tears rolled down his face.
Whenever we arrived to see him, he cried. When we left, he cried. When we moved him to a wheelchair to take him outside so he could get air and my mother could smoke (note for the GUS crowd: she's just finished with her fourth round of chemo, and her doctors are going to re-scan her lung and spine tumors in about ten days to see if they've shrunken at all--wish us luck), he cried.
Sometimes we'd play "catch" using a tennis ball and velcro hand paddles--I'd gently toss a ball to his paddle, and when it hit he'd look at me fondly, and when it missed he'd either sigh deeply through his stoma or else he'd cry and we'd go back inside.
That's what playing catch with Grandpa meant to me as a kid.
I'm not certain of the dates, but I believe he spent about seven years trapped in that body, aware of what was happening and horrified by it, as were we all. The day I got home to find my father teary-eyed in the back hallway waiting to tell me that Grandpa was no longer in pain was, in a way, the happiest day of my relationship with him. I loved him unconditionally, and still do to this day, but I can't help but think that it would have been better if all I had of him was a vague memory of a slurred "Mimi!" and the stories of my aunts and uncles to go by. Because what I do remember of him breaks my heart.
---
When my wife and I were on our honeymoon (our honeymoon, for God's sake) I made her come with me to one of the family's law offices, and I made her swear to me that she would never, never let me live like my grandfather had. I honestly can't remember which side of the debate the aunt who graciously did the paperwork for us had come down on during the initial drama, but it didn't matter anymore.
::
So the day my Nana finally died, I walked into the hospice and saw her lying on a bed in a room that smelled of Lysol and talcum powder, with beeping machines providing the only soundtrack to our last meeting. And I looked into her eyes and saw...well, I didn't see my Nana. I even remember the first words I spoke aloud to her:
"Jesus, Joan, you look like shit."
My uncle Justin had drawn vigil duty, and he had left me alone in the room with her for a few minutes while he went for a much-needed coffee.
I sat at Nana's bedside and stroked her hair, thinking about all the times we'd quarreled; about vacations with her and Papa at their home on the Gulf; about seeing her at my Eagle Scout Award ceremony; and all the little things--big family dinners and small, late breakfasts; driving my cousin and me to the movies; walking with me at the local Strawberry Festival while Papa was running for County Commissioner; telling me about her time as a delegate at the Democratic Convention ("Take Hart in '84!"); showing me all her old campaign memorabilia; swimming with my sister and me at the motel after their house burned down; helping me stop the bleeding when I'd hurt my head while cleaning their attic.
These, thank God, are the memories I will keep of her. Vivacious, energetic, constantly smiling, constantly cheery, infinitely patient and kind. The woman who never forgot a birthday or anniversary. The mother of nine who buried two and her husband, and did it all with poise and stoic grace. That was my Nana, and that's how she will be in my mind forever.
I sat with her for about twenty minutes. Justin came back and I offered him my seat. I kissed the top of my Nana's head and whispered "good-bye," and walked out to my car for the long drive home.