My Grandmother’s Days Are Counted

When life takes a sudden turn

I’m listening to the sounds. The rain has stopped. No more thunder rolling in. A train is arriving at the station not far from us. The sun just set and lit up the horizon in shades of orange.

I am lying on the couch at my grandma’s staring out of the open balcony door. It’s been a long day. It’s been an exhausting day. But it’s been a good day too. My grandma just fell asleep. It was a hard day for her too.

My grandma can no longer be left alone. More or less from one day to another we had to step in. If I say we, I talk about her children and grandchildren. She’s 91, so you might say it’s no surprise.

But my grandma is a tough one. She’s lived through the second world war in Romania. She’s raised three children, at least one of whom (my dad) was always hungry.

She lived through socialism in the post-war time, which wasn’t easy either. She cared for her own parents until they died and the family then moved to Germany.

My grandma watched us grandchildren grow up, and then had to care for her husband through 12 years of cancer. She broke her back lifting him and lives ever since with screws in her back.

It’s 13 years now she lives alone in her apartment. She is still doing all her finances herself. She is cooking, going to the doctors, and visiting friends. All, until recently.

I was visiting her when my uncle called and asked if I was finding her behavior weird. She had offered my cousin, who’s pregnant, a beer the previous day.

Three days later she called the doctor herself feeling something was off.

The diagnosis hit us all. Hard.

A tumor in the brain.

This is the end. We all know. But we want to allow her to live as long as possible in her own home. Where she’s comfortable and has countless memories.

During daytime, usually my uncle stays with her. He just lives across the street. At night my dad first stepped in. Waking up several times during the night because she wants to start making breakfast at 1, 3, or 5 a.m.

She’s still clear in her head. Most of the time. But she can’t be left alone. My cousins have done several shifts. I arrived on Monday evening. She was sitting on the chair next to my uncle when she started:

“You know what I have? The doctor said I can either get my brain cut open. Then I’ll die from the anesthesia. Or I can do radiotherapy but it will have to be a very strong one. Then I won’t be able to eat and die from the side effects.”

I wasn’t prepared for such a harsh entry into the greeting. And I totally forgot to say happy belated 91st birthday which happened to be the previous day. I was just trying not to break down in front of her and start crying.

My uncle added that there’s a third option and she continued, “Yes, there is a third option and that is one I chose to take.”

The third option is basically not doing any of it. The tumor is going to kill her. Sooner or later. But she has at the moment zero pain. She can be with her family. She can go for walks. And play cards.

So, here I am. For the next three days. Now, she is the one who needs care. But don’t think I’m allowed to help her much. She’s going to the toilet alone. She’s showering alone. She is the one making coffee and preparing her breakfast.

But I need to cover her feet when she’s in bed. Pull the blanket over. Put one pillow on her back, one on the belly, another one on the side, and a cherry pit pillow on her shoulder.

I told her she’s like “the Princess and the Pea”. She laughed. Then I said goodnight.

I went back to the living room where we are sleeping on the couch. I lost a few tears. It’s one thing knowing someone is old and will eventually die. It’s another thing knowing this person has a tumor in the brain and could just not wake up the next morning.

She didn’t get up at 1 am or at 3am; she didn’t wake us up once. But I was wide awake at 5am imagining all kinds of scenarios of why she’s not waking up as she did with the others during the night. I got up twice to check if she was breathing.

I’m telling you it’s stressful. I love her to bits. But my mind isn’t playing along. My mind is going its own way. And I don’t like it. I would love to be a bit more relaxed. My uncle jokes with her a lot. I try too. But I’m not that good at it.

I can hear her snoring right now. And I’m happy about it. So I don’t have to get up and check her breathing again.

Spend time with your loved ones as much as you can. You never know when you’re time has run up and you won’t be able to see them again. Don’t be the one living in regrets for the rest of your life.

“A grandma is warm hugs and sweet memories. She remembers all of your accomplishments and forgets all of your mistakes.” — Barbara Cage

I don’t know how long we’ll still have her. She’s talking about days. My uncle talks about “time” we still have together. I like that. It’s a bit vaguer. Less direct.

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