When death becomes her
It’s familia de horreur tradition to have brunch at my grandmum’s place
EVERY Saturday morning. Rain or shine, they always, always go there.
Being the bastard little wild grandchild that I am, I can count the
number of times I joined them in the past year or so using one hand.
This weekend was different.
The news about my 90-something year old (94 or 95, I’m not sure) grandmum’s deteriorating health is nothing new. The poor old bird suffered from several minor strokes and surgeries over the past few years. Earlier this year, she fell from her bed, face first, and got herself a black eye.
She went to the doctors sometime last week to complain about her eyesight. She hasn’t gone blind, no, but her eyesight’s gone worse. Not even her eyeglasses can save her. She can still see things but everything is blurry. She consulted several doctors and nobody really wanted to perform surgery on her because she’s so old and they didn’t want to take the risk because she may not survive any surgery at this point. Part of the problem lies in her arteries, something about how old they are and they’re kinda restricting bloodflow to the part of her face.
The first thing my mum told me is to visit my grandmum often because “she doesn’t have that much long to live”.
Ok. I said it wrong.
She said I should visit my grandmum often because she’s “dying and we’re extremely lucky if she’s alive by the end of the month”.
I wanted to slap her right then and there – my mum is ALWAYS like that. Always the pessimistic bitch. ALWAYS. Think of Alexandr Petrovsky in Sex and the City.
I told her to be more sensitive of other people’s feelings because the last thing anyone wants to hear right now is death and dying. She then replied by saying how she’s only like that so we (me and my obese siblings) put in some extra effort and visit my ailing grandmother.
We didn’t waste some time so on Sunday morning, we paid a surprise visit to my grandmum.
Chirpy old bird that she is, she asked what the hell we are doing in her house.
She seems to be all fine and dandy except for her eyesight. By fine, meaning she seems to be the exact same woman I saw last month. She can no longer walk on her own two feet (she needs a frame) but that’s nothing new. However, it bothers her now, more than ever, because there’s so much pain if she walks for a few steps.
Because of her health issues, there’s no doubt that she’s extremely depressed.
I swear to god, some Hollywood bigshot producer should’ve been there to capture the moment – me, my grandmum, my younger sisters and my mother, all in one room, talking about death. It was oh so familiar – her husband, my grandfather, died 3 years ago, and we had a similar scene.
I had to take a breather and go to the backyard because it was too intense for me. I took a few pictures of some of the flowers yaddi yaddi yadda and the mini video. I left my camera at home so I used my good ol’ mobile instead.
So far, my grandmum’s lived a long, fulfilling life. She would make the odd dying joke here and there but anyone with a brain can tell she hasn’t come to terms with aging or dying. And though she didn’t say it, it’s clear like ice that the old woman is scared shitless of dying. She doesn’t want to die soon – heck, I don’t want her to die soon either. I even joked how she can’t leave us without me having a guy!
We found it funny how lots of old people want to die to ease their pain and suffering but not my grandma. She wants to survive. At least for now.
One thing that brought chills running down our spine is the thought that no matter how she holds fort and keep it strong, it’s undeniable (AND inevitable) that death is just a stone’s throw away.
And there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it.
My grandmum is the only surviving grandparent that I have left. I’m extremely close to her and I love her to bits.
To be honest with you, I didn’t even cry when my grandfather passed away. Although I love him with all my heart and we were close but I just didn’t cry. I felt devastated, of course, but I didn’t shed any tears. It all happened too fast, too quick.
I’m not ready for another loss.
Not right now. Not on this one, no. Not with my dear nana.
Email me and tell me you love me. You know where to send your notes – firstname.lastname@example.org or sms +63.915.785.1492.
Do me a favour and spare me from sympathy and sappy messages. Allow me to indulge in a brief moment of denial. The only reason why I shared this to you is because of the fact that venting on my personal blog is therapeutic.
What I need at this point is a good ol’ long, thick, fat uncut cock. Those Givenchy jackets would suffice, too.
I love you all.