Courage and Letting Go.

I was reading a post on DNR's somewhere (I'll be back with the link when I figure out where I read it initially, sorry...) when I started thinking about courage and how courageous it is to let a loved one die.

Let me go back a few years.

Almost nine years ago I got a phone call from my father. My Grandmother, who I hadn’t even known was ill, was in the hospital. In the Step-Down unit. His voice was shaky. “You need to come up here and see her. I don’t know what’s going on.” He said. My Dad had never sounded so vulnerable, so terrified. His tone frightened me to the point that I jumped into my car and immediately drove across town to see her.

Grandma was sleeping when I finally found her room. I wasn’t at all prepared for what she looked like. She was on a monitor and a number of other machines. I had zero medical education back then; I couldn’t have told you what any of the machines were save the EKG. I had to sit down in order to take it all in. It had only been two or three weeks since I had last seen her, and she looked fifty pounds heavier. Her “perma-tan” as I had called it, the permanent tan she had as a result of being a farmer’s wife, was now tinged yellow. When she finally opened her eyes, the bright twinkle that I had always loved was gone.

She was dying. Her organs were shutting down.

My Grandma’s two sons and a good number of her 12 Grandchildren spent the next four days sleeping in a waiting room on uncomfortable benches, watching hospital TV, and taking turns visiting with a seldom conscious Grandma. We didn’t know what was going on. The Doctors and Nurses were fantastic, unfortunately we were just too emotionally fried to absorb what the experts were trying to tell us. We were held together by my Grandma. The Glue of the family. She was a crazy, obnoxious, loud mouthed, rednecked, tractor pulling, farmer’s wife. And we worshipped the ground she walked on.

Now she’s dying. And we have decisions to make. And up until four days ago we didn’t know she was ill.

It was my Father and Uncle who came to us in the waiting room.

“We want everyone to be a part in this decision.” My Uncle had said.

I’ll never forget it. HOW COULD THIS BE HAPPENING? She was fine! SHE WAS FINE!!!! Just a few days ago SHE WAS FINE! Now we have to make a decision on whether or not to let her DIE? Her body could survive for awhile on life support, but she wouldn’t be the Grandma who would tease us incessantly. Not the Grandma who would yell at us for playing in the damn Soybeans. Not the Grandma who LOVED to play Euchre, who LOVED to watch us sing karaoke. Who LOVED US!

For some reason, I have no idea why, my cousins were looking to me to be the voice for “The kids”. I wasn’t the oldest. I had no medical education… What the hell did I know? My Uncle was a mess. My Father was even worse. He was showing up drunk to the hospital.

Grandma was not Grandma anymore. And nothing was going to fix her. We couldn’t be sure if she was suffering or not. We knew what her wishes were, even though she hadn’t made them legal. She did not want to live like this. She made that clear to my Father and Uncle the day she was admitted to the hospital. We were terrified. It was not a decision we wanted to make. I’ve never been so scared in my life.

We anguished over our decision for a few hours. I’ll never forget sitting down with my cousins to talk about it. No one wanted to say it, but we all thought it best to let her go. Someone had to go tell “The Adults” what “The kids” thought. Once again, my cousins looked to me.

Grandma held on for another day and a half. Several of us were able to hold short conversations with her when she was conscious. She wanted to go home, she said, to be with my Grandpa. When it was my turn to go see her she was already comatose. All I could do was cry and pray to God that we were making the right decision. I held her hand, and tried to talk to her. All I could do was cry. My Dad had to come into the room to drag me out.

“Go, eat.” He ordered. My cousins and brother were heading down to the cafeteria. I joined them.

No one was particularly hungry… Not for food anyway. We were able to sit down there as adults and talk. I remember my baby brother asking if he could smoke in the cafeteria. For some reason we all found this hysterical. So much for trying to be mature about things. The Responsible One didn’t see the humor in it. We were still teasing him when a Nurse came to our table.

“Kids, you need to come back upstairs. Your Father’s need you to come up.”

My cousin Dan asked her point blank if our Grandmother had died. The Nurse nodded.

Five of us ran to the elevator, two of us chose to run up the stairs, five flights. The elevator was taking too long. Finally the doors opened and we stepped on. No one was talking. We watched the floors light up as we passed them. One…Two…Three…Four… Five… The doors opened. Dan and Doug, who had opted for the stairs, were waiting for us. They were sobbing.

She was gone. She died while we were making fun of my brother. She was gone.

We were able to go in to her room and pray, say our goodbyes…

We, as cousins, as kids trying to be adults, did the best we could. We were still young and still wanted our Grandma to be okay, to come home and cook us some of that awful soup she prided herself on. We wanted her to yell at us to quiet down. We wanted one of her infamous hugs that seemed to squeeze the breath out of you. But we were brave. We knew what had to be done. Our Grandma was precious. We didn’t want her to suffer. We wanted her back, but we wanted her in peace more. We acted as Adults. We were as courageous as a bunch of teenagers and young adults could possibly be.

It takes courage to let someone go.