I sit by my grandma’s bedside. Yesterday, she was alert and conversational. Today, she is mostly asleep. Her eyes remain closed, and what little she tries to say emerges garbled because of her paralysis.
Her color is fading, her plump cheeks are hollowing out. Her breathing is labored, tinged with congestion of mucus and saliva — they call it a “death rattle.”
The end is near.
There are no more stories to tell. No small talk. Hardly even words at all.
So I do what I can do.
I sit by the side of her bed and rest my hand in hers. With my other hand, I stroke her cheekbone gently — the way you would soothe a small child.
As my thumb grazes her cheekbone, I tell her that it’s ok. That we are ok. She will be ok. I tell her that it’s ok to let go, even knowing full well that she will go when she is ready.
It’s the only thing I can do. I can only hope it brings her some measure of comfort.
At one point, she puts her hand on top of mine, and I know she understands.
As the autumn afternoon light hits her window, we comfort each other in the silence.
Love it? Hate it? What do you think? Don't hold back...