Lately I've been spending a little bit of time with my grandmother in the hospital.
She sleeps alot. She's worn out from her 92 years on this planet. Her gas tank is nearing empty.
So when I'm there, I'm not doing much. I feel like I'm not doing anything to help her feel better.
When it's time to get her food to her and help her eat, I fumble. I can't get the tray to sit right across her bed on the first try. I am afraid I am going to stab her delicate lips with the fork (so I made her eat small chunks of chicken nuggets with a spoon). I want to say something to her and I don't know what that something is. I worry about missing her mouth and getting soup down the front of her (where did they put that big bib anyway?) And don't get me started on getting the straw for her water into her mouth and not up her nose!
I've been laughing alot while I'm with grandma. Laughing at my vulnerability and the ridiculous-ness of it all. Laughing at this 'near end of life' comedy that seems to be unfolding, maybe just in my eyes.
The other day I laughed at my worries that I'm not DOING enough for her.
I stayed with her a few hours and I read a book, I let her float in and out of sleep, I fed her what little she would eat for dinner and then I rubbed her hair and I rubbed her legs. I said a quiet prayer for her.
She told me to go home. I told her not to tell me what to do (my husband recently told me that my spunk reminds him of her). Then I told her that I want to BE with her. Just BE. That everything at home was fine, that the boys will see me when I get home and that there was a big pot of homemade soup waiting for them for dinner.
She smiled.
And just then I let go of my worries about doing enough and we sat there.... being....
She sleeps alot. She's worn out from her 92 years on this planet. Her gas tank is nearing empty.
So when I'm there, I'm not doing much. I feel like I'm not doing anything to help her feel better.
When it's time to get her food to her and help her eat, I fumble. I can't get the tray to sit right across her bed on the first try. I am afraid I am going to stab her delicate lips with the fork (so I made her eat small chunks of chicken nuggets with a spoon). I want to say something to her and I don't know what that something is. I worry about missing her mouth and getting soup down the front of her (where did they put that big bib anyway?) And don't get me started on getting the straw for her water into her mouth and not up her nose!
I've been laughing alot while I'm with grandma. Laughing at my vulnerability and the ridiculous-ness of it all. Laughing at this 'near end of life' comedy that seems to be unfolding, maybe just in my eyes.
The other day I laughed at my worries that I'm not DOING enough for her.
I stayed with her a few hours and I read a book, I let her float in and out of sleep, I fed her what little she would eat for dinner and then I rubbed her hair and I rubbed her legs. I said a quiet prayer for her.
She told me to go home. I told her not to tell me what to do (my husband recently told me that my spunk reminds him of her). Then I told her that I want to BE with her. Just BE. That everything at home was fine, that the boys will see me when I get home and that there was a big pot of homemade soup waiting for them for dinner.
She smiled.
And just then I let go of my worries about doing enough and we sat there.... being....
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