The Big Green Golf Course In The Sky
"Grandpa, your kidneys aren't working, they can't get an IV into you for the antibiotics and they're unable to get blood samples to see if the infection is subsiding." I tell him.
He doesn't say much and in that moment of silence, I'm trying to figure out how to say it.
"Grandpa, they want to know what you want to do. Do you want to keep trying or are you tired of all of this?" I ask.
He pauses. I think he maybe didn't hear me. Or, maybe he didn't understand. Our communication these days is me bending over him while he lays in bed and I yell into his left ear. His right is no longer working and we're still fighting with the System to get his hearing aids fixed.
"What do you think?" He asks me.
I'm almost horror struck by the question. It's not my decision. But then, the guilt creeps in of my wondering how the hell I'm going to get through months ahead if this continues and I'm starting to wonder if I'll have to quit my job. I'm four months into a new job, and July has basically been a wash. The other side of it is, he's been at the top of my list for relationships I value and cherish for many years, what's life without Grandpa? I don't want him to go, but I've also been with him over the last eighteen months and been watching the decline. He went from an independent young seeming senior to this fully dependent old man. It's unfair.
"Grandpa, it doesn't matter what I think. What do you want to do?" I respond.
More silence. I'm trying to put myself into his shoes and wonder what it must feel like to be contemplating your own life and whether or not it should continue. I can't get there.
"Can I have a day or two to think about it?" He says.
"Of course." I say.
I go home. I talk to my friend Meghan who also has a special relationship with my Grandpa and I talk to Ryan. I tell them that I'm not sure how to tell him that he's dying. I tell them that I feel cruel that I have to present him these options. I tell them that I feel like being the one to have to decide his care plan on his behalf, is awful and that by deciding anything other than life for him, feels like I'm killing him.
The Doctors approach me a couple more times to ask. "What is the care plan?" I'm distraught every time. I tell them that while he cannot hear, he's still coherent enough to decide for himself and we're discussing what to do next. I tell them that he wants a day or two to think about things. They tell me that they'll keep giving him oral medication since he can no longer be given an IV. They will keep trying to get him to eat. They tell me that he responds differently to me than he does to anyone else.
When Ryan and I go by Friday evening, Ryan comments that Grandpa sounds different. I recognize the sound in his voice. It's sadness. He's sad because he has to decide. I can't imagine. At this point, Grandpa has even lost joy in eating which is the thing, next to golf that he's always enjoyed the most. We've brought him milkshakes and homemade baking and it all just sits on the table. On Wednesday, he had managed to drink half of a small milkshake while Meghan gave him a manicure and I shaved him - he loved it. Thursday, a small bowl of broccoli cheddar soup, one of his favorites. Since then, I haven't been able to convince him.
By Saturday, he's accidentally pulled out the fluids IV, so they can't even give him fluids anymore because they can't get the IVs into his delicate skin. Someone asks me if I actually think it was an accident. I say yes because I can't really fathom he'd be so intentional. He's still not interested in eating.
"Grandpa, I need you to drink water. They can't get an IV for your fluids into you anymore. If you don't drink enough water, you're going to die." I tell him.
"I thought I was already dying." He says. I say nothing. He's not wrong.
Saturday night when I go back, he's sleeping. I'm there for the shortest visit yet, fifteen minutes. He acknowledges me but quickly falls back asleep.
Sunday morning, I get a call. "He's refusing his medication."
Sunday afternoon when I go back, he's still able to talk a bit, but he's sleepy. He's been in pain so they've given him pain medication that has made him drowsy. He's asked for it. His stomach has been hurting. After I leave, I get a call from the Doctor who I've chatted with over the last couple of days.
"Are you the family representative?" She asks.
"Yes." I say
"You should start calling whoever else needs to know. He doesn't have much time left, it will probably be a matter of hours." She tells me.
I'm not surprised, but it still hurts. I hate that he's dying in a hospital. I had always envisioned his death as a quiet home death where he goes to sleep and just doesn't wake up. None of this pain and suffering and discomfort.
I go back to the hospital. He can still manage a few words. I tell him that I love him. I tell him that Meghan sends her love. I tell him that I've got everything handled and that it will be ok without him. I leave. I'm not attached to the idea of having to be there for his last breath. I don't know that I'm cut out for it. He knows I've been there and that I've always shown up for him. That's enough for me.
I get home half an hour later and I get the call. "We're so sorry, your Grandpa has passed."
I've thought a lot about that weekend. The thoughts that linger with this experience have been around having the toughest conversation I've ever had. I never imagined that Grandpa and I would be navigating his death together. Like navigating the System, you're not really prepared to talk to someone about life or death. There's no quick google search that covers "how to talk to someone about dying." I found myself trying to soften the conversation by using less overt semantics around the D word (death), probably more for me then for him. My Grandpa never said "yes, it's time." He made his choice through a series of actions - refusing to eat, refusing medication, removing the IV (if it wasn't an accident). There's comfort in knowing that at the very least, he knew what was happening, right up until the end.
Tomorrow, we celebrate his life. It's the second funeral I've planned this year. This is the first funeral I've planned where death was expected. I've wondered for years, if it's better to know someone is going or better to have someone ripped from you. I've decided that both are terrible experiences. On one hand, you don't watch the heartbreaking decline of illness or old age. On the other hand, there's no goodbye. One moment they are there, sitting in your car writing messages in the dust, texting you the night before, and calling you on Sundays and then they are gone.
A few years ago, over breakfast, Grandpa told me that he thought that if you lived to 70, you would have a big surprise party with all of your friends and your favorite foods. After the party, you would go to bed and wake up in the 'Big Green Golf Course in the Sky.' At the time of the conversation he was in his late 80s. He told me that at that time, he thought maybe it was going to be 90 when this happened for him. Well, he lived to 93. If there is something after (which I believe there is), I sure hope that he's enjoying the 'Big Green Golf Course' and I sure hope he's caught up with all of those who left us before him.
He doesn't say much and in that moment of silence, I'm trying to figure out how to say it.
"Grandpa, they want to know what you want to do. Do you want to keep trying or are you tired of all of this?" I ask.
He pauses. I think he maybe didn't hear me. Or, maybe he didn't understand. Our communication these days is me bending over him while he lays in bed and I yell into his left ear. His right is no longer working and we're still fighting with the System to get his hearing aids fixed.
"What do you think?" He asks me.
I'm almost horror struck by the question. It's not my decision. But then, the guilt creeps in of my wondering how the hell I'm going to get through months ahead if this continues and I'm starting to wonder if I'll have to quit my job. I'm four months into a new job, and July has basically been a wash. The other side of it is, he's been at the top of my list for relationships I value and cherish for many years, what's life without Grandpa? I don't want him to go, but I've also been with him over the last eighteen months and been watching the decline. He went from an independent young seeming senior to this fully dependent old man. It's unfair.
"Grandpa, it doesn't matter what I think. What do you want to do?" I respond.
More silence. I'm trying to put myself into his shoes and wonder what it must feel like to be contemplating your own life and whether or not it should continue. I can't get there.
"Can I have a day or two to think about it?" He says.
"Of course." I say.
I go home. I talk to my friend Meghan who also has a special relationship with my Grandpa and I talk to Ryan. I tell them that I'm not sure how to tell him that he's dying. I tell them that I feel cruel that I have to present him these options. I tell them that I feel like being the one to have to decide his care plan on his behalf, is awful and that by deciding anything other than life for him, feels like I'm killing him.
The Doctors approach me a couple more times to ask. "What is the care plan?" I'm distraught every time. I tell them that while he cannot hear, he's still coherent enough to decide for himself and we're discussing what to do next. I tell them that he wants a day or two to think about things. They tell me that they'll keep giving him oral medication since he can no longer be given an IV. They will keep trying to get him to eat. They tell me that he responds differently to me than he does to anyone else.
 |
| Meghan & Grandpa |
When Ryan and I go by Friday evening, Ryan comments that Grandpa sounds different. I recognize the sound in his voice. It's sadness. He's sad because he has to decide. I can't imagine. At this point, Grandpa has even lost joy in eating which is the thing, next to golf that he's always enjoyed the most. We've brought him milkshakes and homemade baking and it all just sits on the table. On Wednesday, he had managed to drink half of a small milkshake while Meghan gave him a manicure and I shaved him - he loved it. Thursday, a small bowl of broccoli cheddar soup, one of his favorites. Since then, I haven't been able to convince him.
By Saturday, he's accidentally pulled out the fluids IV, so they can't even give him fluids anymore because they can't get the IVs into his delicate skin. Someone asks me if I actually think it was an accident. I say yes because I can't really fathom he'd be so intentional. He's still not interested in eating.
"Grandpa, I need you to drink water. They can't get an IV for your fluids into you anymore. If you don't drink enough water, you're going to die." I tell him.
"I thought I was already dying." He says. I say nothing. He's not wrong.
Saturday night when I go back, he's sleeping. I'm there for the shortest visit yet, fifteen minutes. He acknowledges me but quickly falls back asleep.
Sunday morning, I get a call. "He's refusing his medication."
Sunday afternoon when I go back, he's still able to talk a bit, but he's sleepy. He's been in pain so they've given him pain medication that has made him drowsy. He's asked for it. His stomach has been hurting. After I leave, I get a call from the Doctor who I've chatted with over the last couple of days.
"Are you the family representative?" She asks.
"Yes." I say
"You should start calling whoever else needs to know. He doesn't have much time left, it will probably be a matter of hours." She tells me.
I'm not surprised, but it still hurts. I hate that he's dying in a hospital. I had always envisioned his death as a quiet home death where he goes to sleep and just doesn't wake up. None of this pain and suffering and discomfort.
I go back to the hospital. He can still manage a few words. I tell him that I love him. I tell him that Meghan sends her love. I tell him that I've got everything handled and that it will be ok without him. I leave. I'm not attached to the idea of having to be there for his last breath. I don't know that I'm cut out for it. He knows I've been there and that I've always shown up for him. That's enough for me.
I get home half an hour later and I get the call. "We're so sorry, your Grandpa has passed."
I've thought a lot about that weekend. The thoughts that linger with this experience have been around having the toughest conversation I've ever had. I never imagined that Grandpa and I would be navigating his death together. Like navigating the System, you're not really prepared to talk to someone about life or death. There's no quick google search that covers "how to talk to someone about dying." I found myself trying to soften the conversation by using less overt semantics around the D word (death), probably more for me then for him. My Grandpa never said "yes, it's time." He made his choice through a series of actions - refusing to eat, refusing medication, removing the IV (if it wasn't an accident). There's comfort in knowing that at the very least, he knew what was happening, right up until the end.
Tomorrow, we celebrate his life. It's the second funeral I've planned this year. This is the first funeral I've planned where death was expected. I've wondered for years, if it's better to know someone is going or better to have someone ripped from you. I've decided that both are terrible experiences. On one hand, you don't watch the heartbreaking decline of illness or old age. On the other hand, there's no goodbye. One moment they are there, sitting in your car writing messages in the dust, texting you the night before, and calling you on Sundays and then they are gone.
A few years ago, over breakfast, Grandpa told me that he thought that if you lived to 70, you would have a big surprise party with all of your friends and your favorite foods. After the party, you would go to bed and wake up in the 'Big Green Golf Course in the Sky.' At the time of the conversation he was in his late 80s. He told me that at that time, he thought maybe it was going to be 90 when this happened for him. Well, he lived to 93. If there is something after (which I believe there is), I sure hope that he's enjoying the 'Big Green Golf Course' and I sure hope he's caught up with all of those who left us before him.
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