My grandma – who I called Farmor (Swedish for father’s mother) – died last night. About sometime around 4am.
My dad called me to let me know about 4.
We got to see her, the whole family, on Wednesday. One of the few days this week which I did not work two shifts.
She had fallen again like the evening before, I guess. Everybody just came and sat with her, she didn’t really respond, just kind of stared into space.
Before that, I got to see her I think a week before, also on Wednesday. She was asleep the whole time until we left and said goodbye.
June 3rd, though, was when I really got to see her, really say goodbye for real. She had seen an angel that night before (or early morning or something) who had told her she would die at night. She was pretty shaken up by that, of course …
But she was alert then, doing well. We had conversations.
I don’t even really know where to begin.
It’s being woken up with bad news. How … I mean … you know it’s coming. But, I mean, I don’t know.
Or like, how do you deal with maybe this is the last time to say goodbye?
Maybe, it’s good, to be able to do this without overwhelming illness overshadowing things. I dunno. I mean, real conversations and stuff.
Alertness, orientation, it’s good. It’s hard, when that’s not what your last memory is. When it’s just a dark hospital room, cracked bleeding lips, early birthdays.