Irony                                                                                  

I left Crossfit feeling defeated and sorry for myself. I've had persistent pain in my right shoulder that has recently gotten worse.  I originally thought it was residual from the bicep tendon I ruptured in January.  However, it hasn't gone away and lately I've started thinking it’s a Rotator Cuff issue.  As I drove to Manor Care to see Gram, I was thinking about the impending MRI that I’m having Friday and wondering what the results will be.  A Rotator Cuff injury – even without surgery – is a long recovery.  If surgery is needed, it’s much longer.  In either case, I would likely need to consider giving up Crossfit.  That angers me.  And that, along with the work-related drama that’s occurred over the last few weeks has exacerbated my anger. Poor me.

As I walked my cranky ass into the facility, Sandy directed me to Gram who was down the hallway near her room.  As I approached, I noticed something odd; she was wheeling her wheelchair down the hallway with her eyes closed!  As I snapped a photo of her, I couldn't help but to smile.  This woman always cheers me up!

We sat in the hallway in front of the nurse’s station and Gram toyed with the bottle of Gatorade that she stole from me.  She drank some, but mostly just kept taking the lid off and putting it back on. 

While we sat there, I heard Harry, who was down the hall, singing, of all things, “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow.”  (I had previously referred to Harry as the “Gay One,” since I didn't know his name and he struck me as such.  Then, for a while, I wasn't so sure.  It could have just been that I interpreted his over-the-top friendliness as gayness.  Tonight’s rendition of that show tune, however, may prove my original notion to be correct). 

Sandy brought some ice cream for Gram.  It’s funny how something as simple as watching Gram eat ice cream can lift my spirits.  She’s so much fun to just watch.  She was so focused on getting the hard ice cream out of the container with the plastic spoon that she was deep in her own world, stopping only occasionally to offer some to me.  (I would graciously say, “No, thank you.”)  As she devoured the ice cream, I was catching a glimpse of red on her fingers out of the corner of my eye.   At first I thought it was blood.  Then I remembered that Monica had painted her nails last week and what I was seeing was remnants of the polish.  Again, I smiled.

As I prepared to leave, Chris, one of my favorite aides, stepped behind the nurse’s station and I overheard him saying that his blood pressure was very high – something like 160/120.  That’s crazy.  He's 31!  Stefanie told him to sit for a while.  He said he didn’t feel well. Eventually, the whole gang gathered around the station – Gary, Carol, Sandy, Stefanie and some others.  They were all concerned about Chris and urging him to talk to his doctor about it.  I was concerned too.

But amidst all the commotion at the nurse’s station, Gram was still quietly going about digging the ice cream out of the cup and eating it.  Then, once again, in the background, Harry began blurting out “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow.”  I kissed Gram on the forehead and said what I usually say, “I have to go to work; I’ll see you when I get home.”  “I guess,” she retorted, still intensely focused on the ice cream.

As I walked down the hall and toward the exit, my mood was better.  I thought, “Yes, this too, shall pass.  The sun WILL come out tomorrow.”  I opened the door to go outside.  SNOW!!

Hang Time

Perhaps my favorite story that perfectly epitomizes the dynamics of Gram and Pap’s marriage is one that took place when Pap was bedridden after having lost his second leg from Diabetes.

I was staying at Gram’s house at the time.  I vividly remember sitting at the dining room table while Pap was in his hospital bed in the makeshift bedroom/hospital room that had once been Gram’s living room.  Gram’s house was small and she enjoyed open concept living long before it became desirable and trendy.  Pap’s bed was along the wall in the living room and therefore could be seen from anywhere in the kitchen and dining room.  Gram resented having lost her living room to that damn hospital bed.  So much so that, the night that Pap died, Gram said to me, “I want you to call first thing tomorrow morning and get that Goddamn bed out of my living room.  I want my house back!”  I did.  She got her house back.

That day, I was sitting at the table facing toward Pap’s bed and reading the paper.  Gram was getting him up into his wheelchair as she did religiously every single day.  “He’ll get bedsores,” she would say in her disgusted voice, “Like he had when he was in that damn hospital.”  (Gram used to get so angry about the care that Pap got during his many, many stays at St. Francis hospital.  Non one could care for him the way she did.)  She used a Hoyer lift to get Pap up out of his bed and into his wheelchair.  Although he was perfectly capable of helping out by rolling and lifting some of his own weight, he usually would not.  He’d lie there like a dead body and let her do all the work.  This, of course, angered Gram.  She would swear profusely and talk under her breath, as if he could not hear her, the whole time she was doing it.  The Hoyer had a gray, square canvas material sling that was about four feet square.  It had grommets on each corner where the chains would attach.  Gram would roll Pap to one side, slide the sling under him, then roll him to the other side and pull it through while rolling back to center.  The sling had to be centered under his body in such a way that he would be balanced while he was being lifted.  Once the sling was under his body, Gram would wheel the lift so it was centered over the bed.  The lift was designed so that the base could be slid under the bed so that the top was extended over the bed.  She would connect the four chains to the sling and then to the hooks on the top of the lift.  Once connected, she would lock the brakes on the lift, then grab the handle and pump him up.  Once he was high enough to clear the bed and the wheelchair, she would unlock, push and turn the lift in such a way that she could lower him over the wheelchair seat. 

That particular day, Gram had gotten Pap into the lift and pumped up.  Since he had no legs, he looked really funny dangling and spinning back and forth as he hung there.  Suddenly, I glanced up and Gram was gone.  “Where the hell did you go, you Goddamn bastard?” Pap squawked at that very same moment I looked up.  Then, from behind the closed door of the bathroom comes, “I had to take a Goddamn leak, you son-of-a-bitch!  You’ll just have to wait!”  I looked down at the paper I was reading and pretended to not be paying attention, while I held back my laughing.  I made sure not to catch Pap’s eye so he would not see me laughing while he dangled there helplessly.

Gram eventually came back and they continued the bickering and name calling until she got Pap into his wheelchair and over to the table where she would then make his breakfast. 

To this day, I still laugh when I remember that day.  I love to tell this story.

For Better or Worse

“You coming you stupid bastard?” Gram blurted out as she wheeled her way toward the door that leads outside in the back of the vending room in the Long Term unit.  “Come on, I’m going home!” she continued, partially twisting around in the wheelchair so that I knew she was addressing me. 

For the past couple of weeks, Gram’s been living up to the name that the first aide she encountered at Elmcroft Assisted Living affably gave her the day she arrived back in March of 2010.  “Spunky” stuck with her throughout her tenure at Elmcroft – not only in name, but also in demeanor.  But lately, she’s not only spunky; she’s been downright nasty, at least with me. 

One of the most amazing things I find about Alzheimer’s disease, is how Gram can look right at me but see someone else.  Granted, there are times that she sees me as Mikey, the little boy, and others that she sees me as Michael, the grown man, but in those cases, I’m still me.   But the times when she sees me as a completely different person, such as her dad, or her son, or as it was this past week, her husband - these times really amaze me.  She not only calls me by their names, but she also treats me the way she treated them.  It is very real to her and I have learned over the years to never try to argue these things.  It only upsets her.  I go with the flow.

To me, it’s clear that her comment above and her general nastiness toward me lately, were actually directed toward Pap, my grandfather and her husband – the person she saw when she first looked at me that night when I arrived and found her in the vending room.  That’s exactly how she talked to him – and him to her for that matter.  And the angry, hateful look on her face was typical of how she looked at Pap when she was angry. 

Gram and Pap were married 56 years when he died in June of 1994.  They bickered constantly.  I would best describe their marriage as a love- hate relationship, one characterized by lots of yelling.  “Why don’t you take a good suck on my ass,” was one of Pap’s favorite comebacks when Gram was screaming at him.  “Go to hell you son-of-a-bitch,” she would reply.  The words “Goddamn,” “son-of-a-bitch” and “shit” flowed as naturally out of Gram’s mouth as they might out of a truck driver’s.  (They still do).  There was just an emphasis and loudness added to them when arguing with Pap, which was often.   Perhaps the funniest part of their arguments was when one or the other didn’t hear what was said and would go off screaming and ranting about what they thought they heard, only to get even angrier when they found out they were screaming at the other about something that wasn’t even said.  When Pap became bedridden and would remain that way the last 10 years of his life, the words, “I’ll kill you, you son-of-a-bitch,” could often be heard coming out of Gram’s mouth as she catered to his every need and cared for him around the clock – even though in many ways, he was perfectly capable of doing for himself.  His general laziness, constant demands and disregard for her needs would get her fuming.  Once, when he was trying to manipulate her in his usual way -by saying he wished he would die- she surprised him.  “I wish I would just die," he whined.  “Me too!” she snapped.  She didn’t mean it; at least I don’t think she did.  Another time, she got so frustrated; she grabbed the pillow and held it over his face as if she was going to smother him.  He really was a piece of work.

Nonetheless, throughout their marriage and despite their bickering, Gram took her wedding vows very seriously.  “In sickness” was underscored in Gram’s marriage.  Pap was often sick and as much as she may have hated it at times, Gram was devoted and always there taking care of him.  During the many, many times he was hospitalized at St. Francis hospital, Gram, who never got a driver’s license, would find her way to the hospital by bus or whatever to be by his side.  Often she was getting a bus there after working a long day herself.  She would sit religiously at that hospital until visiting hours were over.  Even though the time was spent bickering, she was there.  It’s doubtful to me that Pap would have done the same had the situation been reversed.  The night Pap died, he did so shortly after Gram had left, which was a few minutes before visiting hours were over.   When I got the call and hunted her down to tell her of his passing, she responding immediately by saying, “I should have stayed.  I shouldn't have left early.”

We used to joke with Gram that she was keeping Pap alive so she could keep his pension coming.  There may have been some truth to that, since Pap, who had a very nice pension from his job, chose to take the entire distribution while he was alive rather than leave a portion for Gram to receive after his death.  “I’m taking everything I can get while I’m alive,” he used to say.  Gram’s income was cut in half when Pap died. 

Gram told me once that if things were, back then, like they were today, she would have divorced Pap.  I wonder.

Even today, Gram will sometimes say, "I have to get home.  Daddy's gonna be mad if I don't make supper." (She often referred to Pap as 'Daddy').  She was an old school wife who took that role very seriously.

Keep The Memory, Not The Stuff

Tonight is a particularly difficult one.  I can’t seem to stop crying – really crying.  Although I often shed tears over the situation with Gram, I don’t often sob.  Tonight I’m sobbing.

Every memory of Christmas that I have – from my earliest to last year - has involved Gram in some way.  Whether it was her dressing up as Santa when we were kids and handing out gifts or her cooking her amazing Christmas turkey dinner, she’s always been there.  Cookie baking, tree hunting, decorating, (the dreaded) Christmas shopping, going the Christmas Eve service at St. Catherine’s to listen to the guy play the guitar that she always liked so much, are just some of the Christmas memories I have.    

I went to the basement today to bring out my Christmas decorations for my own tree (that I finally bought).  As I was pulling boxes off the shelves in the storage area next to my laundry room, I noticed 4 other boxes on the bottom shelf.  I have known these boxes were there and for the last 5 years, I have seen them in passing, but would quickly go about my business, not wanting to deal with them.  I had no recollection what was in them – probably blocked out of my memory by choice.  Those boxes have always been something I’d deal with “someday.”

That someday became today as I decided to open those boxes.  I opened them delicately, as if I had never seen them before and tentatively, knowing how it was likely to affect me.  In them I found all sorts of things from Gram’s house wrapped in newspaper and packed in the exact order of how I frantically proceeded through the house room by room as I packed back then.  I moved frantically then because I knew if I slowed enough to think about the magnitude of what I was doing, I would have broken down emotionally and not been able to complete the task at hand.  Each box that I looked in today was packed from a specific room and area.  And I remembered exactly where every item was back then when I picked it up to pack it.  For example, one box contained items from a specific section of Gram’s kitchen counter - candy dish, can opener, etc.  As I unwrapped each item, I pictured, in my memory, what things looked like back then and for years before.  The memories came flooding back - 42 years of memories of Gram and her house and all of the holidays, birthdays, picnics, Steeler Sundays, or just quiet evenings that I spent there.  Most of my life was spent at that house!  At that moment, I realized the magnitude of what happened 5 years ago.

And so I sobbed.  Then I went to visit Gram.  She was asleep, but I just sat quietly with her.  I get strength from her; I always have – just being in her presence.  How ironic it is that the strength I get from her helps me to deal with her own circumstances.  I returned home and sobbed again.  I sobbed through a whole bag of Hershey’s Kisses.

Tonight I am left with the knowledge that I can’t hold on to things – that memories are not attached to the items in those boxes.  Rather, my memories of Gram and my relationship with her go far beyond any “stuff.”  As difficult as it is, I know that I will need to let go of the “stuff.”  I will, however, always hang on to the memories.

Chubbs

“Sometimes they’re mean toward those that they’re closest to,” Judy, the nurse from Hope Hospice, said on the other end of the phone, as I told her how mean Chubbs was being toward Gram (his mom) and Jude (his wife).  “He’s trying to push them away in some attempt to minimize their pain of losing him.”   Although that may have explained things, it was still hard to watch – sometimes he was downright nasty toward them.  It was, naturally, a really tough time for the whole family, especially Gram.  By early December, we were talking to Judy at least once a day.  Chubbs was a tough customer and there was drama:  Chubbs didn’t want to accept any of the equipment they wanted to send to the house – wheelchair, hospital bed, etc.  It was his own way of denying what was happening to him.  Who could blame him?  Even today, I can’t begin to understand the magnitude of receiving the news that you’re dying in just a few months.  Who can grasp that?  Gram didn't show it, but I know she was devastated.

Twelve years ago today, December 15, 2002, Gram lost her only son, Burnett Berberich, to Pancreatic Cancer.  (Gram called him Chubbs, Chubby, Snoop or Snoopy.)  He was diagnosed on August 6 of that year.  He lived only a little over 4 months.  Sadly, his was the type of cancer that had no real options or treatment.  I was at the cancer specialist with Chubbs and Jude when he was given his prognosis.  Chubbs sat on the edge of the exam table in the exam room and Jude and I stood on either side.  The doctor came in and put the film up on the light board and then immediately pulled it back down with one hand and turned around.  He was face to face and eye level with Chubbs.  “I’m sorry,” he said, almost emotionless.  “I suggest you get your affairs in order.  You have about 4 months.”  I remember my heart sinking in that moment as I held back tears and noticed the combined look of disbelief and devastation on Chubbs’ face.  We had previously been told it was Pancreatic Cancer, but this was the first time we knew what to expect.  The doctor went on to describe how painful the disease is and how some people had lived as much as a year or two, but their tumors were in the upper end of the Pancreas.  He then went on to say that even when some patients are treated by surgery – the Whipple Procedure- the tumors ALWAYS came back.  There was no cure and no real longevity.  When the doctor finished, Chubbs’ responded the way that those of us who knew him would have expected him to respond:  “You mean I won’t make it to next May so I can collect Social Security?”  “No,” the doctor said.  Chubbs would have been 65 the following May.  He had retired at 62 – early.  He had finally had enough of the buyouts, mergers and constant changes at the cement plant where he had worked for many years.  Chubbs, who was always known for being cheap and saving all of his money for retirement, sadly enough, only got to enjoy about a year and a half of his long-awaited retirement.    

Although Gram maintained her tough exterior throughout the process, I know that losing the son she loved so much was devastating for her.  In fact, in hindsight, I wonder if Gram was really able to truly grasp what was happening.  She was never one for showing emotions so it was hard to tell.  I rarely saw Gram shed a tear.  I remember only two occasions:  when Pap died and when Chubbs was dying.  In both cases, the episode was very brief and controlled and she never sobbed.  The fact that his disease progressed and took his life so quickly was traumatic and difficult for all of us to grasp.  After it was over, it felt like our heads were spinning to try to catch up with all of the events and emotions of the previous four months.  For Gram, I often wonder if the trauma of losing Chubbs could have even triggered her dementia.  It seems unlikely, but one never knows.  It was shortly after his death that she began to exhibit symptoms.

Gram tried hard to keep Chubbs eating while he was sick.  It was very hard for all of us to watch – a big, strong, muscular guy, who always enjoyed eating – whither into someone who struggled to eat a tablespoon of mashed potatoes.  She tried making all of his favorite meals in hopes that he’d eat.  Sometimes he would.  Most times he couldn’t, especially near the end.  She didn’t quit, she remained steadfastly devoted and persistent. 

It was Friday afternoon, December 13, when things took a turn for the worse.  Chubbs had been filling up with fluid a lot.  He went to the hospital weekly to get “drained.”  Thursday, the day before, he had been drained and that night, Jude made a spaghetti dinner.  I ate with them that night, as I often did, and Chubbs actually ate well - for him, anyway.  He commented that it was because he was drained and didn’t feel as bloated.  “That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” he remarked with a big grin after he finished.  That made Jude (and me) happy.  Little did we know it would be his last meal. 

Late in the morning on that Friday Jude called me at work and said that Chubbs couldn’t get off of the toilet.  I told her I’d come and I hung up the phone and went to tell my boss I had to go.  When I arrived at Jude’s house, Chubbs was in the recliner.  Jude explained that a guy came to deliver hospice supplies and she asked him to help and he did.  However, things went downhill from that point.  Chubbs became more restless as the evening went on.  He also began to have pain. (Uncharacteristic of those with Pancreatic Cancer, he had not previously had much pain.)  Judy, our hospice nurse, told us to begin administering the Morphine that she had placed in the refrigerator on her first visit, knowing that we'd need it later.  They were oral syringes, so Jude and I began the ritual of taking turns administering it in Chubbs’ mouth every 1 ½- 2 hours.

All evening, Chubbs was on some mission it seemed.  He would not sit still.  No matter where he was, he wanted to be somewhere else.  When he was in the kitchen, he wanted to be in bedroom; from there he wanted in the living room, then the kitchen again.  Around and around we went -me helping him out of the wheelchair and walking him to his destination each time.  I struggled, too, because at this point he had quickly filled up with fluid again so he was heavy and awkward.  But I persisted as did he.  This went on for hours.  Late Friday night, he finally sat down in the big brown leather recliner that he had bought a week or so before just for dying and he calmed down.  The Morphine began to take effect.  We had been in touch all evening with Judy.  “He’s running,” she said.  “What?” I replied.  “He’s running from death.  He’s scared and he hasn’t accepted it.”  “Oh,” I said, surprised, but also thinking she was right.  When he finally sat down, I guess he had found some acceptance.   

Chubbs wanted to die at home.  While he was sick, one of us was always sure to bring Gram over to visit and spend time with him.  While she was at home, Gram spent much of her time making meals that Chubbs liked.  She would bring those meals to Chubbs when she visited.  She wanted to be close to her Chubby.

Gram was there Saturday, the next day.  Early in the day, Chubbs was in and out of consciousness.  During the day, the “death rattle” started and we knew time was running out.  We all sat in the living room wondering when he would take his last breath.  Gram would occasionally leave out her characteristic deep sigh – the one during which she typically whispered an “oh shit,” thinking no one heard.  We sat and we talked and we waited and we wondered.   Gram, Jude, Mom, my sisters -Michelle, Tara, and Heather- all of us.  We were tired.  We were scared.  We waited.  And if anyone left the room, they’d come rushing back in as soon as there was any type of noise from Chubbs.  We continued the Morphine ritual.

At one point, I saw some tears in Gram’s eyes.  Without calling attention to them, I said to her, “Mum, come over here and sit with him and tell him you love him.”  I know that her doing that would be one of the most difficult things in her life.  Gram just didn't say the words “I love you” – not to anyone.  She would say, “Me too” if you said it to her.  That was the most you’d get.  But she did walk over and she sat down in a chair next to the recliner.  She held Chubbs’ hand and she bent her head down near his chest.  I heard her talking to him, but I couldn't hear words and intentionally didn't listen.  I didn't for one second want Gram to feel embarrassed for saying anything that she might have been saying.  It was too important.  I suspected she would need to reach back to this moment once Chubbs was gone and take solace in the fact that she said what she needed to.  After a few minutes, Gram stood up and said, in her strong way, “Well, there’s nothing else I can do here.”  She put her coat on and was ready to go home.  Mom took her home. 

By the end of Saturday, Chubbs was completely unconscious.  Sunday came and everyone was back in our respective seats.  Chubbs was still hanging on and we did the same ritual – we all sat there afraid to leave the room and waiting for the moment to come.  Hospice Judy called and was surprised that Chubbs was hanging on.  She suggested that we let him know that it was OK for him to go.  “Tell him,” she said, “Tell him that it is ok for him to go.”  We did.  She also suggested that we leave the room.  “The hearing is the last thing to go,” she said.  “Although he can’t respond, he can hear.  He doesn't want to die with everyone around – especially Michelle, Jude and his mom.”  Judy knew the bond that Chubbs and Michelle had.  It was that of a father and daughter.  She was his princess.  So we all left the room.  But as soon as Chubbs would groan, we’d all run back in.  This went on for hours.  As it got late and everyone got ready to leave, Michelle called out, “Good night, Chubbs.  We’ll see you tomorrow.”  Michelle, Mom, Heather and Gram left and got into their cars to go home.  Only Jude and I remained and as we stood in the dining room making our way outside to smoke a cigarette, I noticed something.  I turned to look at Chubbs and at that moment, I said softly, “Jude, look.  He’s taking his last breath.”  I don’t know how, but I just knew.  The family had barely pulled out of the driveway.  Hospice Judy was right.  He waited.

I saw something beautiful that night -a lightness; a relief came over Chubbs' body as he exhaled that last breath.  The pain and burden were gone.  It was as if I was watching him leave his wretched body.  I walked over and placed my hands over his eyes, said goodbye and closed them.  "Goodbye Chubbs.  Rest in peace."

Oh Christmas Tree – Gram Style

Some years ago, perhaps 10 or 11, before the onset of the Dementia (or perhaps it was even a result of the early onset), during a visit to Gram’s house, I noticed a big stack of boxes in her laundry room.  There, in the middle of the floor, stacked high, were the boxes containing her Christmas decorations and tree trimmings.  It was July, so I was obviously curious.  “What’s all this,” I asked.  “I’m throwing it all out!” she exclaimed.  “I’m cleaning things out and I don’t have room for that shit here.”  “Oh,” I said, thinking she’d never really throw the stuff away, because I had tried to help her throw other stuff away before and she would pull it back out of the garbage.  To my surprise, she did throw it all out – ornaments from years and years ago, lights- the big, round frosted ones that I always loved so much (and that you can’t buy anymore), the liquid lights that bubbled liquid while they were lit- all of it, gone.  I was surprised, disappointed and saddened.  My fondest childhood Christmas memories were those that involved Gram and there were always decorations and a beautiful tree with lots of presents under it.

Gram always cooked for Christmas Day and I spent the day there with her and Jude.  (When Chubbs, Gram’s son was alive, he too, would be there.)   As Christmas approached that year, I kept asking about a tree.  “No, I’m not getting a Goddamn tree.  Why do you think I threw out all that shit?  I’m not doing that anymore; I’m tired of it!”  “It’s Christmas,” I’d say.  “We need to do something.” 

At one point, unbeknownst to me, she had gone to Walmart and bought a 3-foot fiber optic tree on a little stand that rotated and gave off light through a prism.  The branches were very fine and coated with a white substance to mimic snow and as the base slowly spun, the fiber optic strands lit up in beautiful colors.

 

One night when I was visiting, I brought up Christmas again.  “I can’t believe we’re not even going to have a tree for Christmas,” I lamented.  Making no comment, Gram marched into the laundry room and came out carrying a box.  She pulled the tree out of the box, plopped it down on the end table that was next to the sofa, and said, “Now there, there’s your Goddamn tree!” 

And so it’s been every year since then.  Each year as I pull the tree out to take it to Manor Care, I can’t help but to smile as I remember that day.  

Bad Feeling

It is not the first time I have had this feeling – a bad feeling – like the end is near.  This disease is such an emotional roller coaster.  Gram goes through phases; she’s down for a few days, then back up and about and crazy.  She stops eating for a while, and then just as quickly as she stopped, she starts eating again.  One never knows at this point.  Her hospice record – being placed on and discharged twice – demonstrates this idea well.  I look at each visit as potentially the last.

She slept all day they told me when I called earlier to see if she was awake, in the hopes of bringing her a fried chicken dinner.  “She is not,” the person on the other end of the phone said.  “And she will not wake up.”   When I subsequently arrived and went to her room, I pulled back the blankets to see if she needed her diaper changed.  She opened her eyes and kept them open for a while.  But she was despondent and distant.  Her eyes looked at me and beyond me at the same time – as if she saw something else.  I talked to her and she just stared at me.  I turned the TV on and she just stared at that.  Her facial expression was blank- vacant.  I sat with her for a while, her eyes jetting back and forth between the TV and me, but as if not seeing either.  She dozed.  The room was so hot that I was down to my T-shirt by the time I left.  Gram, on the other hand, was covered in blankets.  There was an occasional deep sigh and groans, but no movement.  I hate seeing her like this.

I got up to leave and kissed her on her forehead as I always do.  “I’ll see you in the morning,” I said, as I always do.  She nodded and in a whisper voice, mumbled some words that I could not make out.  She closed her eyes once again.  As I walked out, I thought, God, I hope I don’t get a call tonight.