Loss
Sorry for being AWOL and neglecting my blog duties for so long. Life has been rather distracting and draining as of late...
For those of you with an interest in my personal life, you'll probably remember a recent few posts (here and here) about my grandmother's stroke. Well, on Wednesday, 5 August at 10am, after a week and a half at home, my gran was finally admitted to the Entabeni Rehabilitation Unit. At 6am on Thursday, 6 August she dozed off and died while a nurse was checking her blood pressure.
An immediate call to our house by my grandmother's doctor informed us of what happened, and reconfirmed my theory that phone calls before 6:30am never deliver good news.
As I've mentioned on my blog before my grandmother was not one of those physically and emotionally distant see-you-only-on-Christmas-and-at-other-important-family-gatherings grandmothers. She had lived with us my entire life. Yet, curiously, I don't feel as sad as I think I should. If I sit and remember my gran, or if I talk a lot about her, the tears come, but I'm not paralyzed by grief.
Perhaps it's because my sadness is tempered by a kind of relief, which, surprisingly again, I don't feel very guilty about. I've been trying to analyse why this is the case and I think it's because of the way my gran was right towards the end. Mentally she wasn't the same person that I remember fondly - playing hopscotch with me and helping me stage dolls' tea parties when I was little, and, later in life, delighting me with her curmudgeon-y "What the hell is this?" attitude to every single one of her birthday and Christmas presents.
My grandmother's regression was particularly noticeable during her week and a half at home, after her Medical Aid and Westville Hospital decided she was "well enough" to be discharged, and before space opened up at Entabeni Hospital's special stroke and spinal injuries rehab unit. During her first few days at home my gran was emotionally very upset and often either groggy or confused. However, she would at least make eye contact, recognise her visitors, smile on occasion, hold a cup and attempt to talk, even if it was in a "muh-muh-muh" frustratingly unintelligible kind of way.
By Monday, 3 August, however, she seemed to have mentally disconnected from the world completely. She would rarely open her eyes, was incapable of recognising anyone and would just groan and cry at the slightest touch. Feeding was no longer accompanied by a mix of sweet-talking, pleading and bargaining. The meagre few millilitres of food and drink we got down her throat every day were forced with a syringe.
Now I'm sure this sounds like a pretty nasty way to treat a 79 year old invalid but the rehab unit doctor was impressed that my family had coped to the degree we did. Our theory that my grandmother was regressing was correct. After her initial massive stroke, she was put on blood thinning medication. This meant that existing clots were now bulldozing around her brain and the rest of her body. Not only was she at serious risk of cardiac arrest but during her time at home she had been having dozens of mini strokes, cutting off blood supply to different parts of her brain and causing all kinds of irreparable damage. Feeding my grandmother had been difficult because her swallowing reflex - such a simple action we take for granted - had deteriorated. She just couldn't do it.
As difficult as it has been to hear, the rehab doctor had been honest upfront when my grandmother was admitted on Wednesday. My gran would never make a full recovery. Her treatment was being structured to make her manageable for a care giver in future. That involved teaching her how to eat and drink, sit up, be capable of basic conversation, shuffle to the bathroom etc.
As it turns out, even if my gran had been up for treatment, even if she had been compus mentus and willing to fight to regain her life, it wasn't to be anyway. After her death the results of a blood test came in and revealed that she was in the first stages of renal failure. Her organs were shutting down.
So in the end, even though the last few weeks of her life were hard to witness, and no doubt even harder to experience, my grandmother avoided a slow, agonising death. She died painlessly in her sleep.
My grandmother's death was more expected for some members of our family than others. My mother was especially hard hit because she's a planner; always looking hopefully to the future, making arrangements for the next step. Suddenly there was no need to make inquiries about old age homes, or shuffle finances to pay R6 000 - R8 000 for frail care every month.
Myself, I wasn't surprised by my grandmother's death, but I did feel guilty that on the day she was admitted to the unit, and in fact for the whole time she was at home, I would hold her hand and tell her that the doctors were going to make her better again.
At the same time though, as I've already mentioned, her death was accompanied by a sense of relief - not so much that we had been freed from the responsibility of caring for her, and the guilt of probably putting her in a home, but rather relief that my grandmother is now at peace, and no doubt back to who she really was.
I'm not an especially religious person but my encounters with death and grief this year have helped me form a theory that good people (and pets) go somewhere good, somewhere peaceful after death. I don't buy the whole idea of a stern being waiting to judge us after death, and immediately assigning all but the most perfect, rule-obedient followers to an eternity of agonising, fiery torture. I like to think that God, or Whoever, or Whatever, is far more open hearted and accepting of human fallibility than we're often led to believe.
But I'm being side tracked. I think there are 3 kinds of death: 1) the sudden and unexpected, 2) the gradual but at all times compus mentus demise, and 3) the gradual slide into death accompanied by a slide into dementia. None of the 3 are easy to watch a loved one experience, but they are quite different - in the way they play themselves out, and in terms of the grief they provoke. While Number 2 applied to the loss of our beloved golden retriever a month or so ago, my grandmother's death slotted into the third category. The woman we knew and loved left us at least 2-3 days before her body did. And that does make it a bit easier to deal with.
I have to say at this point just how amazing a place the Entabeni Rehabilitation Unit is. Although I only got to walk the hallways for a few minutes and see the hard work of the recovering patients and their armies of carers, the experience caused me to automatically re-evaluate my career and life choices. Although no doubt brought on by heightened emotions, my first thought was just how self centred I am, and just how little contribution I make to improving the world. For a brief moment I thought about heading back to university and becoming a neuropsychologist.
The work of the staff at the rehab centre really touched me. These were not the disinterested nurses of Westville Hospital - who would rather giggle in their station than clean my grandmother on her last day - or the always absent doctor who wasn't even around when my gran was discharged to offer advice on how to care for an invalid, or give instructions regarding her medication.
On the day my grandmother died the Rehab Unit heads came to speak to us and offer their condolences. They had also put my gran's body in a quiet ward so we could spend some time with her and say our goodbyes in private. We were even given tea in the ward, and we toasted my grandmother - a Yorkshire lass - with her favourite drink.
That's about all I have to say. The funeral, or rather life celebration, was held yesterday, Wednesday, and it was a quiet affair, with just her small South African family (her remaining 3 brothers and sister are in England), and close family friends present. We played a few of her favourite songs, read a few of her favourite prayers and blessings, and shared an account of her life.
It isn't until you have lost a grandparent or relative from a much older generation that you realise the rich source of family history you have lost - and you regret all those times you disrespectfully only half-listened to their stories. I know I can't identify many of the people in my gran's old photo albums.
Anyway, the first member of my family to next travel to the UK will be returning my grandmother's ashes to her hometown of Halifax and likely spreading them in the surrounding Yorkshire Moors.
RIP Kathleen Woodrow (nee Joyce). I hope right now you're enjoying a cup of tea and a good Catherine Cookson novel with Tara curled up at your feet. Thank you for everything and we'll see you around.
For those of you with an interest in my personal life, you'll probably remember a recent few posts (here and here) about my grandmother's stroke. Well, on Wednesday, 5 August at 10am, after a week and a half at home, my gran was finally admitted to the Entabeni Rehabilitation Unit. At 6am on Thursday, 6 August she dozed off and died while a nurse was checking her blood pressure.
An immediate call to our house by my grandmother's doctor informed us of what happened, and reconfirmed my theory that phone calls before 6:30am never deliver good news.
As I've mentioned on my blog before my grandmother was not one of those physically and emotionally distant see-you-only-on-Christmas-and-at-other-important-family-gatherings grandmothers. She had lived with us my entire life. Yet, curiously, I don't feel as sad as I think I should. If I sit and remember my gran, or if I talk a lot about her, the tears come, but I'm not paralyzed by grief.
Perhaps it's because my sadness is tempered by a kind of relief, which, surprisingly again, I don't feel very guilty about. I've been trying to analyse why this is the case and I think it's because of the way my gran was right towards the end. Mentally she wasn't the same person that I remember fondly - playing hopscotch with me and helping me stage dolls' tea parties when I was little, and, later in life, delighting me with her curmudgeon-y "What the hell is this?" attitude to every single one of her birthday and Christmas presents.
My grandmother's regression was particularly noticeable during her week and a half at home, after her Medical Aid and Westville Hospital decided she was "well enough" to be discharged, and before space opened up at Entabeni Hospital's special stroke and spinal injuries rehab unit. During her first few days at home my gran was emotionally very upset and often either groggy or confused. However, she would at least make eye contact, recognise her visitors, smile on occasion, hold a cup and attempt to talk, even if it was in a "muh-muh-muh" frustratingly unintelligible kind of way.
By Monday, 3 August, however, she seemed to have mentally disconnected from the world completely. She would rarely open her eyes, was incapable of recognising anyone and would just groan and cry at the slightest touch. Feeding was no longer accompanied by a mix of sweet-talking, pleading and bargaining. The meagre few millilitres of food and drink we got down her throat every day were forced with a syringe.
Now I'm sure this sounds like a pretty nasty way to treat a 79 year old invalid but the rehab unit doctor was impressed that my family had coped to the degree we did. Our theory that my grandmother was regressing was correct. After her initial massive stroke, she was put on blood thinning medication. This meant that existing clots were now bulldozing around her brain and the rest of her body. Not only was she at serious risk of cardiac arrest but during her time at home she had been having dozens of mini strokes, cutting off blood supply to different parts of her brain and causing all kinds of irreparable damage. Feeding my grandmother had been difficult because her swallowing reflex - such a simple action we take for granted - had deteriorated. She just couldn't do it.
As difficult as it has been to hear, the rehab doctor had been honest upfront when my grandmother was admitted on Wednesday. My gran would never make a full recovery. Her treatment was being structured to make her manageable for a care giver in future. That involved teaching her how to eat and drink, sit up, be capable of basic conversation, shuffle to the bathroom etc.
As it turns out, even if my gran had been up for treatment, even if she had been compus mentus and willing to fight to regain her life, it wasn't to be anyway. After her death the results of a blood test came in and revealed that she was in the first stages of renal failure. Her organs were shutting down.
So in the end, even though the last few weeks of her life were hard to witness, and no doubt even harder to experience, my grandmother avoided a slow, agonising death. She died painlessly in her sleep.
My grandmother's death was more expected for some members of our family than others. My mother was especially hard hit because she's a planner; always looking hopefully to the future, making arrangements for the next step. Suddenly there was no need to make inquiries about old age homes, or shuffle finances to pay R6 000 - R8 000 for frail care every month.
Myself, I wasn't surprised by my grandmother's death, but I did feel guilty that on the day she was admitted to the unit, and in fact for the whole time she was at home, I would hold her hand and tell her that the doctors were going to make her better again.
At the same time though, as I've already mentioned, her death was accompanied by a sense of relief - not so much that we had been freed from the responsibility of caring for her, and the guilt of probably putting her in a home, but rather relief that my grandmother is now at peace, and no doubt back to who she really was.
I'm not an especially religious person but my encounters with death and grief this year have helped me form a theory that good people (and pets) go somewhere good, somewhere peaceful after death. I don't buy the whole idea of a stern being waiting to judge us after death, and immediately assigning all but the most perfect, rule-obedient followers to an eternity of agonising, fiery torture. I like to think that God, or Whoever, or Whatever, is far more open hearted and accepting of human fallibility than we're often led to believe.
But I'm being side tracked. I think there are 3 kinds of death: 1) the sudden and unexpected, 2) the gradual but at all times compus mentus demise, and 3) the gradual slide into death accompanied by a slide into dementia. None of the 3 are easy to watch a loved one experience, but they are quite different - in the way they play themselves out, and in terms of the grief they provoke. While Number 2 applied to the loss of our beloved golden retriever a month or so ago, my grandmother's death slotted into the third category. The woman we knew and loved left us at least 2-3 days before her body did. And that does make it a bit easier to deal with.
I have to say at this point just how amazing a place the Entabeni Rehabilitation Unit is. Although I only got to walk the hallways for a few minutes and see the hard work of the recovering patients and their armies of carers, the experience caused me to automatically re-evaluate my career and life choices. Although no doubt brought on by heightened emotions, my first thought was just how self centred I am, and just how little contribution I make to improving the world. For a brief moment I thought about heading back to university and becoming a neuropsychologist.
The work of the staff at the rehab centre really touched me. These were not the disinterested nurses of Westville Hospital - who would rather giggle in their station than clean my grandmother on her last day - or the always absent doctor who wasn't even around when my gran was discharged to offer advice on how to care for an invalid, or give instructions regarding her medication.
On the day my grandmother died the Rehab Unit heads came to speak to us and offer their condolences. They had also put my gran's body in a quiet ward so we could spend some time with her and say our goodbyes in private. We were even given tea in the ward, and we toasted my grandmother - a Yorkshire lass - with her favourite drink.
That's about all I have to say. The funeral, or rather life celebration, was held yesterday, Wednesday, and it was a quiet affair, with just her small South African family (her remaining 3 brothers and sister are in England), and close family friends present. We played a few of her favourite songs, read a few of her favourite prayers and blessings, and shared an account of her life.
It isn't until you have lost a grandparent or relative from a much older generation that you realise the rich source of family history you have lost - and you regret all those times you disrespectfully only half-listened to their stories. I know I can't identify many of the people in my gran's old photo albums.
Anyway, the first member of my family to next travel to the UK will be returning my grandmother's ashes to her hometown of Halifax and likely spreading them in the surrounding Yorkshire Moors.
RIP Kathleen Woodrow (nee Joyce). I hope right now you're enjoying a cup of tea and a good Catherine Cookson novel with Tara curled up at your feet. Thank you for everything and we'll see you around.
Comments
When my nephew died earlier in the year, I felt sad, but at the same time--having gone through it with my sister--I knew the relief that he would be feeling since he wasn't having a seizure every thirty seconds. While I was certainly sad, I wasn't morbidly obsessed with mourning his loss.
I know what you're saying with the losing so many good stories when the older generations pass. I've toyed with the idea of writing up my grandfather's story from WWII, but aside from the one anecdote, I don't know all that much. He never really talked about it, and my mother doesn't remember the stories he told her the night my grandmother died. And, like I said, it was a helluva story.
My gran's life story - and she was forever sharing anecdotes - was very similar to Angela's Ashes though not as wretched or poverty-stricken, seeing as she grew up in industrial northern England as opposed to southern Ireland.
But like you said, you can't become morbidly obsessed with loss, especially when the person is suffering. You should really remember them at their best, and realise the death, when it happened, was actually a relief.