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I was doing so well this morning. I got up and took a nice hot shower, courtesy of our brand new hot water heater. Came into work after getting my first "real" night�s sleep in days. I was almost on time. I tore through the mystery pile on my desk and got a ton of stuff out to where it belonged. I ran a couple reports to take with me to the hospital and work on there so I can manage to not fall further behind. I was in pretty good spirits.
Then I went to lunch with my friend Nancy, and lost my train of concentration. Now, I can�t seem to look at anything for more than three minutes without completely losing the ability to make any sense of it. I�ve been trying to type the minutes of a meeting from last Friday. The words are swimming in front of me. This is bad.
I caught my mom this morning right before she left the house. She sounds so sad, it�s hard to talk to her. I kept trying to hang up and go back to work, and she didn�t want to stop talking. She was dreading the ride up, didn�t want to go, but at the same time was anxious to get to Nana. I know exactly what she means.
Mom planned to stay until I get to the hospital tonight, but my guess is she�s just going to stay up there regardless. The idea of leaving is difficult. What if we leave, and that�s it? What if I get up to go home, or to get some lunch, or to go to the bathroom and she dies while I�m gone?
The Boyfriend wanted to come in to my apartment last night. I discouraged him, since I was exhausted and wanted to go to bed, and he�d just arrived home. He asked when I was planning to come back from Nana�s. How can I answer a question like that? I have no idea. I told him that if he wanted to see me that much, he could come to the hospital. He froze. The idea of coming into her room terrifies him.
She�s not his grandmother. I understand that. He�s only met her a handful of times. But he knows how close she and I have always been, how much I love her, how hard losing her is for me. I want him to want to take the opportunity to talk to her now, because it�s the only chance he�s going to have to see why my grandmother is so wonderful. She asked for him, too. I told him that. He asked me why. I can�t even find the words to explain that she sees him as family. My family. Which makes him her family. Which means he should bring his ass up there.
Or maybe not. Maybe I�m being irrational. Is it wrong for me to want him to come see her? Is that an unreasonable request? Is it too late for that for her? Or too early for him?
She told my mom a few weeks ago that she was heartbroken at the thought of missing my wedding, and that she wished at least that she could be part of the planning.
So do I, Nana. So do I.
I�m afraid to go up there tonight. Afraid to try to say goodbye to her, afraid of the finality of the conversation I want to have with her. Afraid she won�t know how much I love her, how unfair I think all of this is, how much I�m going to miss her. Afraid that I�ll get there and it will already be too late. Afraid she�ll slip away before I have a chance to do anything. Mom told me this morning that they�ve upped her morphine levels to try to make her more comfortable. I�m afraid they�ll give her so many drugs we�ll lose the conscious part of her, the part I can tell all of those things to.
Nana was in her early 50�s when I was born. I spent all of my summers, all of my school vacations, weekends, my dad�s business trips sleeping either in the little bedroom at her house in Beverly or on the cot in the bedroom at the camp in Conway. Three times a week, I�d call her on the phone and talk for hours. One time, so she tells me, I called her and said, "Nana, tell me all the swear words you know, and I�ll tell you all the ones I know." She�s been my confidant, my biggest cheerleader, my shelter, my role model, my friend. My Nana. She has always been ageless. Therefore, the thought that I�d ever not have her never occurred to me. She was never old.
Even this Christmas, even in her fragile state, the idea that she was dying was foreign and uninvited.
Even now, I can say the words. I can tell you that my grandmother is dying, that the doctors say she has only days to live, and I know what the words mean, I recognize the concept.
But it isn�t real.
I almost wish it were, that I could find a way to imagine my life without her. Because that way when I look around and she�s gone, which I logically know will happen, perhaps it won�t be so hard.
My cousin Tony was right. I am the saddest I�ve ever been.
Many thanks to all of you who have signed my guestbook, sent me email, posted on the Mediarama boards, mailed me cards, called my house. I am so very lucky�there are so many people in my support system. And I appreciate so much all the good words and vibes and prayers. And I�ve needed them all. And my fear is that it�s only going to get worse, and I�m going to be glad I have them to fall back on. So truly, thank you.
I don�t know when I�m going to get a chance to update again. I don�t know that the people in Beverly Hospital will give up their internet access for me to update my journal. So this may be my last entry for a while. I promise I�ll be back, though�this is a good and safe place, and I�m going to need that.
Safe journeys, all of you. Go hug someone you love.
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