A Visit From Granny

She comes to me in my dreams sometimes, all soft and sweet and quiet.

She lost her voice about a year half before she died; dementia robbed her of it. The only time I heard it after that was when she was in pain. A couple of days before she died, it returned. She cried out loud for her Mama. It was heart wrenching. Her body was shutting down, her lungs struggling to take in air, her throat struggling to swallow the fluids that were building up in her lungs and stomach and washing up. She was too weak to cough and she was frantic. Even at 89, you want your Mama, the one who brought you comfort when you were sick, lost and hurting.

Finally, after much counseling and information gathering, me, being her guardian, with the help of her children-my aunts and uncles, decided to not have her fight this infection and sickness, but to make her comfortable and help her to go. To say it to the nurse, to give the go ahead to withhold treatment, but to make her rest, it shattered my heart into a million pieces.

The sea-sickness patch they placed behind her ear made her throat muscles relax and she no longer struggled to swallow. The morphine eased her pain and helped her to rest. She had not taken in food or water for several days. I know her body must have been contracting in excruciating spasms as she dehydrated. But the medication eased it. The nurses and CNA's kept her mouth lubricated with swabs. We wiped her brow with wet cloths and we turned her body to different positions to keep her blood from pooling.

We stayed with her constantly now. She no longer called for her Mama. The 23rd Psalm had been recited to her many times. She had received Communion one last time. Her loved ones spent last private moments with her. Me and my Aunt J were with her when she let go. Her breath was coming in puffs, and the puffs stopped. And then a long, last breath was released. My Aunt J walked up to the nurses station to get someone. I watched my Granny's face go from wrinkled and strained, to soft and peaceful. All the wrinkles smoothed out in those last few seconds. It was like watching a computer animation. It was unbelievable and remarkable. Her eyes had been closed but, now they slowly re-opened. I placed my hand over her eyes and smoothed them down, but they wouldn't stay closed. I couldn't help but smile, because she could be a bit stubborn at times!

We left the room while one of Granny's favorite CNA's came in to clean and dress Granny. When we returned, Theresa had combed and braided Granny's white hair, which hang down to her bottom. She had dressed her in soft, pink pajamas and she now lay on her back with her hands folded and her long white braid came over one shoulder and rested on her chest. I couldn't believe how clean and sweet and serene she looked. She was like an angel laying on the bed. So tiny and frail, but yet, not sad or sorrowful. Theresa did such a wonderful job in giving Granny her dignity back. She didn't have to wear a huge, bulky diaper anymore. She could lay on her back again, her back relaxed and her head gently supported by a pillow. She was clean and neat, the way she had always kept herself before her illness.

In my dreams, she comes to me and sits on the bedside. She doesn't talk. But her eyes dance and her smile is as sweet as I remember it. She has kissed me too. Soft little angel kisses on my cheeks and lips. It's like she is coming back to see me and make sure I am okay. She always wears a pink dress. The dress I remember her wearing one Easter, back in 1992. It was sleeveless and pink with white flowers. Her hair was short and curly then. But in my dreams her hair is long, braided, then wrapped in a bun on top of her head, the way I always fixed it for her.

When I was little and very much alone in this world, she took me into her home, into her arms, and into her heart. I lived with her for three of the most vulnerable years of my life. I never forgot that and I always thanked her the best way I knew. She took care of me as a young child, but the roles were reversed, and I took care of her when she was old. She was then my baby. I bathed her, combed her hair, fed her and talked to her even when she couldn't answer me. I knew when dementia took the best part of her mind, she still remembered me. I could see it in her eyes, her smile, and the way she held my hand.

When she visits me in my dreams, sometimes I carry her. Just like she carried me, when I was little.