PLEASE NOTE: This is an opinionated piece from my perspective as a human being. However, I do not want to negate that these are topics and themes that affect other individuals in potentially different ways. At the end of my opinion and experience-based article, I will list resources and helpful links to sites with more clinical and professional information and resources.
*4/17/2023: I have wished that my grandmother would pass away for the last four months. *
*9/23/2023: It has been four months since my grandmother passed. I have wished that she was here everyday.*
It’s not that I wish anything ill to become of my grandmother. For context, she had a stroke. She made a miraculous recovery; she did so much rehab and physical therapy (PT), and was truly a force to behold. Had not one, but BOTH knees replaced baby, bionic woman. And nailed that rehab too. By the second knee-replacement surgery though, we saw that every time she went under anesthesia it was harder for her to come back in one piece. She started to really struggle regaining mental clarity, especially when it came to rehab. Still, a woman from the south, she kicked rehab and PT’s butt a third time, and was off her walker two weeks post-surgery! It really is a testament to this woman’s tenacity. She is my grandmother after all. But, she got cancer. They went the route of surgery with a mid- to high-projected success rate. Before going under she told me she was scared. She said that she just wanted to see all of our (her family’s) faces and that she wasn’t ready to die yet. The surgeons got all of her cancer. The surgery was a complete and total success. She didn’t leave the hospital for two months. Eye infection. Rapid weight loss. Rehab and PT didn’t go quite as planned. She just hasn’t been able to heal. It’s been nine months since her surgery. Her wounds have healed, but my FooFoo has not.
My dearest darling Grandmama, Bunny FooFoo, is living at home with hospice care and family. Still alive, but static. The life I see her living is rich, not drenched in confinement; to her chair, her room, her house, her bed. A home draped in grief is no place for her. Not big enough for her spirit, not full enough for her kindness, and not hollow enough for her laughter to bounce and dance around so all the guests might be part of the fun. It all makes me think about how the reasoning behind why we put dogs to sleep is objectively logical, but that same reasoning becomes instantly illogical when you swap a human into the situation. We treat human life with so much care. Not do, but should. We should treat life with care simply because life is miraculous. I believe every second is a gift. I am so thankful every time I get to hear my grandmother’s voice. It breaks my heart but it’s so much better than the simultaneously miraculous phenomenon of death, which we know little to nothing about. Far much better for her to stay here, with us, where we can see her and sometimes hear her voice.
Her voice lives in my head. I can hear the change in frequency in the buzzing air as she sings through the two syllables of my name, “Siiiiidneeeeeeey, would you come help your Foofoo with something?” She’s standing in a, not small but full of pots, pans, mixers, and one particularly sturdy waffle iron, black and white tiled kitchen. It’s filled, also, with a range of various life-sized china bunny rabbits and the occasional tiny tasteful tiger. Tied around her waist is a white apron colored in with a pattern straight out of Better Homes and Gardens, 1985, and her hair is semi-neatly tucked into up-do, just a few curly-cues bouncing around her neck. She has a large white hobnail mixing bowl in one hand, filled with broccoli florets and melted cheddar cheese, and a red-tipped spatula in the other. She waves me toward her and guides me up the antique french-painted stepping stool before handing me the spatula. We sing Mama Mia’s version of ABBA as I learn how to make my new favorite dish, broccoli and cheese.
The trouble is that while we grow up and become adults, we still, with our lizard brains and human emotions, remain children. Until we are too tired we never forget what fun is to be had. We remain the children we always were as we grow. Maybe it’s not even “childish” or the innocence associated with childhood, but simply the person that we popped out onto this Earth as. That person was a child, and maybe now they’re not, but they’re still that pure Earth-human-magic-goo of a personality living in a placenta-grown body. That “child-like” purity is carried with us our entire lives. And while we may learn what to do and how to do it (how to ask for help and get things done the hard way), we never stop being greater than this little human heart who knows nothing of what’s good or bad or right and wrong and just wants to love and be understood. So if we strip the paint away until all that’s left is our human urge, so too is that little child-like thing that has no idea what it’s doing but wants to do good. So there’s always hope to be found in the eyes of people like my grandfather, who support growth and healing whatever that may look like. My grandfather could motivate anything. You’d think he was coaching baseball when he talks to he and my grandmother’s geriatric maltese-shitzhou mix. “All right now boy, that’s the stuff! Up to the door, come on, you got it! Ready to get that diaper off and show this yard whos boss, huh?” He was truly born a dad. But there will always be hope for people, because of our human-ness; the urge to be as good as we can be. So it’s too hard for us to let go of human life. We grasp it. No surrender. No retreat. We grasp it until our dying breath.
I went to a funeral today (02/25/2023). It was celebrating the life of one of my grandmother’s dear friends, Mary [names changed for family’s privacy]. With whom, for over 35 years, she shared her life, raised her children, and enjoyed retirement with. It was so lovely and terribly sad, but not because there was anything “bad” at the lovely church she and my grandmother are members of. It is a wonderful church. Mary was an amazing person. She carried a motherly warmth with her all through life and touched every single person in the precession’s life some-way somehow. So while it was somber, it really felt like a celebration, saying, ‘hey kid, you were it’. But there’s a selfish sadness that creeps in. I found myself crying not because I was touched by the music or the sermon, but because I couldn’t bear to imagine this scene, future-tense with my own grandmother in her place. It felt so final, so real, at the funeral. We’re never again going to get to enjoy the amazing and wonderful woman that was Mary.
That’s the thing about dementia. It takes away the person you had been your whole life, piece by piece. Not all at once, that would be too sweet of the old devil. But (and here’s where I start really projecting, so this is speaking to my first-hand witness of rapid-onset dementia that took away my grandmother’s ability to walk in 6 mo.) it lets you remain asleep, and then sometimes, quite often in fact, it lets you awaken to see all of the ways in which your life has deteriorated. But then, you’re there! That is everything to the people who love you and are caring for you. We don’t know what to do. But Lord Almighty, when you’re asleep in there you can be very sassy and stubborn, which of course is better than what came next (the sea of nothingness: no words, no scowls, not being able to look at us and see our faces) and we’re trying our best but you’re- still here. Sometimes. More or less. Mentally you’re there. Sometimes. I hope.
Mary had been struggling with dementia for four years before she died. I pray she no longer has to sleep in that heavy fog, and is in heaven with her family just as she was promised by the good book (and the love contained within) by which she based her life. I have hope in my grandmother’s faith, even though I do not necessarily share it, and really hope I’ll get to see her in Heaven.
with love, Sid
*Please know that grief is a process that affects everyone differently, and if you are struggling please reach out. You shouldn’t have to grieve alone.
~For CAREGIVER SUPPORT contact Caregiver Action Network’s Care Support Team by dialing 855-227-3640. Staffed by caregiving experts, the Help Desk helps you find the right information you need to help you navigate your complex caregiving challenges. Caregiving experts are available 8:00 AM – 7:00 PM ET.
IF YOU ARE A PHYSICIAN IN NEED OF SUPPORT, The Physician Support Line is available at 1-888-409-0141 weekdays from 8:00 AM – 12:00 AM ET. Physician Support Line is a national, free, and confidential support line service made up of 600+ volunteer psychiatrists to provide peer support.
~IF YOU ARE STRUGGLING WITH SUICIDAL THOUGHTS call or text 988 or to chat online visit 988lifeline.org. The 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline is a national network of local crisis centers that provides free and confidential emotional support to people in suicidal crisis or emotional distress 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
~If you would prefer someone LGBTQIA+ AFFIRMING call 1-866-488-7386 or text START to 678678 to connect with the Trevor Project; a national 24-hour, toll-free CONFIDENTIAL SUICIDE HOTLINE FOR LGBTQIA+ YOUTH.
~The National Disaster Distress Helpline is available FOR ANYONE EXPERIENCING EMOTIONAL DISTRESS RELATED TO NATURAL OR HUMAN-CAUSED DISASTERS. Call or text 1-800-985-5990 to be connected to a trained, caring counselor, chat available 24/7/365 at Disasterdistress.samhsa.gov
~If you are in crisis and CANNOT TALK ON THE PHONE, text MHA to 741741 and you’ll be connected to a trained Crisis Counselor. Crisis Text Line provides free, text-based support 24/7, regardless of the crisis.
If you want more of Enhance on the topic of grief as well as the grieving process, be sure to check out Season 1 Episode 6 of the podcast: The Process of Grief with Olivia Mixion!
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