This past Thursday I arrived at
the nursing home to find my grandmother a semblance of her usual self. She has been hospitalized ever since, our
family sitting in anxious vigil by her bedside.
On Friday morning, a
compassionate emergency room physician sat toe to toe with my father and gently
told him that our matriarch was dying.
He warned that with her rapidly failing health there would be some
difficult decisions that would have to soon be made. In that moment I instinctively knew that despite
our mutual concerns for our loved one, we would be a family at odds over those
decisions.
Despite my continuous struggles
with my faith, when it comes to death I have always trusted that God knows
best. Even as a little girl, the
prospect of death did not scare me and mostly because my beloved grandmother
too frequently intoned how blessed we would all be on the other side. I can still envision those promises of an
eternal Eden and even now I believe that she herself trusts in that as her
wakeful moments are spent beseeching her “sweet Jesus” to come for her.
Since Friday I have slept in the
hospital each night and only a few times has she known who I was. Last night, after calling me by her late
sister’s name for over three hours, she woke from a restful sleep and questioned
what took me so long to come. I had to
smile as I told her that I had never left her side and would be there until she
was ready to go home. She nodded and
told me how much she was hurting as she cried over and over for Jesus to come
help her. She told me she was tired, and
I understood that even though we might not be, that she was ready for whatever
might come. I held her hand and squeezed
it tight, and told her that everything would soon be fine. Then she called me by my name and asked me to
scratch the hurt out of her head.
In that moment I could no longer
hold back my tears. I was suddenly reminded
of how, as a little girl, my grandmother would scratch my scalp whenever I felt
bad, intoning that a good head scratching could take the hurt of anything away. There was overwhelming comfort as I sat on
the floor between her thighs, my arms wrapped tightly around her legs as she
meticulously parted my hair, gently oiled my scalp, then braided love back into
the loose strands. We bonded in those quiet moments, that time together all our own as we lost ourselves in conversation. So, in the wee hours
of the morning, tears streaming down my cheeks, I scratched my granny’s scalp, remembering
how she had once scratched mine.
My family and I continue to sit
vigil, still at odds over what should happen next. None of us want to lose her, but not all are
trusting, believing instead that the most intrusive procedures might inevitably
do what God will not.
There are no words for the bond
between me and my grandmother. My love
for her is immense, the old woman occupying every square inch of my heart. Since I was a little girl she has trusted me
with secrets that I will take to my grave, where I know that she will carry
mine. I have done the unimaginable for
my grandmother, very few others coming close to moving my spirit as she
has.
And now, when she doesn’t know that
I am there or even remember my name, all that I can do is hope and pray that a
plastic comb and a gentle touch will bring her a semblance of comfort and help scratch her
hurt away.
In 2009 my beloved grandmother battled her way back from severe pneumonia, proving that some doctors don't always know what they're talking about. After days in intensive care, she and death butted heads and death turned tail and ran in the opposite direction. That time wasn't her time, the old bird proving that a fighting spirit can surpass the insurmountable. 
