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Written on Wednesday, Aug. 27, 2003 at 3:09 pm
Today would be my grandma's 78th birthday. Here is where I will keep some memories of her. Her name was Marjorie, just like my daughter.
Written in February of 2001 The Paul Kane-looking doctor told us that he felt there was nothing he could do to reverse the downward trend my grandma was taking. The only thing keeping her alive at that point was the blood-pressure medication, and every time they changed it (just for that short of a time) her blood-pressure would drop drastically. Her kidneys weren't getting rid of nearly enough fluid - she was about 40 pounds overweight just from fluid. Her heart wasn't strong enough for dialysis. Her organs were all shutting down. And there was no reversal. We had to make the decision to either let her die then, or keep her on medication for the few more days it would work. We knew she wouldn't want to stay like that. The doctor left to remove her breathing tube, and to make her "pretty" for us. Like she was ever not pretty. Then we walked back into the ICU - all of us. We sat there and talked to her, held her hands, kissed her. I don't know if she saw us, but she did open her eyes. She was kind of snoring, and I rember crying cause I'd never get to hear her silly claim that she never snored. Her mouth was moving - open, shut, open, shut. They turned the monitor on so we could "see" what was happening to her body. Her heartrate dropped and eventually stopped all together. Her mouth kept moving - reflexes we were told. The chaplain read a passage from the Bible. It seemed right at the time, but when you think about it, how can you just sit and watch someone so dear to you die. Just sit and not do anything. I know in my heart that it was right, there was nothing to be done anyway, but it still feels wrong. Last night I had a dream that she was sitting around with us all and laughing and saying, "Oh, it's good that you guys gave me that extra chance or surely I'd be dead." I cried when I remembered it. After she passed on, we went outside to the parking lot. We stood around in the heat talking and it was all so simple. We were in and out of the hospital in less than an hour, and a life had passed. My youngest cousin wanted to go get Pokemon cards. My oldest cousin was in the middle of moving. Alex cried, I tried to be strong. I drove home, cause driving calms me. I don't remember much else about that day. I think I must have slept a lot. I have never had many questions about Heaven. I always figured that it wasn't a big deal to worry about - I'll see it when I get there. But now I want to know. Did she have a quick trip? Did it take hours? Did she see the "white light"? Can she watch us? Does she get to garden or sew like she always did on earth? I wish I could go and see her - even just for a minute, cause then I'd be able to imagine what she is doing at any given moment. But I have no clue what it's like and that drives me nuts. I was looking at some pictures this week of her life, and it's strange, but my main memories of her are her tiny, frail, sick self. And most of the pictures are of a plump (although not chubby), healthy woman. It's hard to realize that these pictures are of the same woman. I wish so hard that I could remember her healthy. I mean I have memories of times when she was healthy, but when I picture her in my head, she's tiny. I wish I would have hugged her more, so that I could remember what it feels like to have her arms around me, but now all I remember is her swollen hand at the hospital. I should have said "I love you" more often. Even though she knew it, I wish I could remember saying it. I love my grandma so much, and I miss her even more. How are you supposed to get over something like that? I love you, Grandma, I always will.
Obituary, February 2001
 Three Years Old
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