While Waiting to Be Dead

Someone decided to die

*Before starting this very dark essay, let me just say once and for all, I hate that every word has to be capitalized in an English title. The English language has a power trip of using capital letters for no significant reason.

Apparently, our never-ending winter was one of the darkest in history regarding luminosity. For sure, the sun hasn’t granted us with its presence much. Whether it’s related or not, I also went through a very dark moment, which I wrote about already. This dark and sunless segment of 2023 made me realize I was basically just waiting for life to end altogether. While I am feeling better now, I still believe we are fucked doomed, but my sense of humour has come back and my desire to write it off as well.

As a way to stay strong in this, at the end of February, I started writing a longer piece in French, the exact translation of the title of this one you are reading, and I focused the first chapter on death. In fact, it’s called: “The Deads”. Not long after this chapter was over, we heard that my only remaining grandmother was sick, sicker than usual. No surprise, she is almost 93 and if her mind in sharp as an ice pick, her body says otherwise, and it’s been saying it for many years now. The second I read (we have a group chat on messenger, it’s as good as it’s awful) she had a bladder infection, I knew she was doomed, more than the average person, let’s say.

It took around a week for the bladder monster to mutate into a blood demon (it didn’t really mutate, they coexisted but one became angrier quicker). The solution was a six-week intravenous antibiotic treatment plus surgery to clean her prosthetic knee (the one that caused the septicemia). She kindly refused the surgery, to openheartedly do the same with the antibiotics a few days after hating them. They ruined her arms trying to find veins and she had enough, I guess.

Last summer, when I was visiting, she told me about her recent hip replacement (she was almost brand new… part-wise) and how the doctor had advised her there was a possibility of her not waking up after, to whom she replied, “It would be the most fantastic way to die”. Peacefully, calmly, comfortably.

When I visited her yesterday with Otis, my youngest son, I was terrified of not even being able to speak without crying. The vibe called differently when I entered the three-patient room where she was. My uncle arrived at the same time (and I was not expecting it because he didn’t write it in the messenger group – what’s the point then?), and I was shy. Her denture was in a pot in front of her and she looked in pain, her light-blue eyes so aware, her pure white hair in every direction and she was arguing with the nurse because among the handful of pills she was given, there was no painkiller, and it was non-negotiable. She was happy to see us, very happy, but every once in a while, she was having a pain spark in her leg, and it was quite painful to watch.

My grandmother, also my godmother, used to be my fourth neighbour, my babysitter and the person I would visit almost every day, until we moved in 1996, one year prior to my grandfather’s death. This was the year when an immense gap was born between me and everyone else. However, I was still somewhat close. Not visiting is something I am very good at, and I did just that with her. Once, twice and sometimes three times a year, I would go and spend a few hours, listen to some old stories, hear that my sons were not “real” Harvey because they bear their father’s name, and bla-bla-bla.

For once, there is no guilt or regrets about anything I did or didn’t do, or for not visiting often enough. I must admit I was relieved that she had decided to let go of treatment before I did go visit, I could never have acted like there was any possibility of recovery or getting any better. Now that it’s very clear that she has started walking towards the light, or maybe crawling because her legs don’t go anywhere, we’re good. We even joked about it, and bashed a couple cousin’s kids because they just can’t behave properly. I almost screamed at her “don’t tell her I said that, right?” after she was very uncomfortable telling me she did love her grand-grand-child, but they really were exhausting her. We had a good laugh, laugh to which my son replied, “At least we can say you had a good life”, out of nowhere.

She has decided to let go, but she would like to “enjoy” what’s remaining, and the hospital won’t give her salt to season her food because her profile says she’d better not have it. Our health system is free, sort of, but I wish we didn’t have any tax breaks in the past 10 years so that we can put our about-to-die grandmothers in single rooms with salted food instead of “enjoying” a $200-1000 tax break once in a while, as if it truly changed anything after all. After an hour or so of joking about stealing salt packets, and touching her every chance I had, it was time to go.

She was OK yesterday, but I am fearful that she will degrade very quickly. I am going again with both my sons and I have to bring a picture, so she can enjoy looking at pictures of her family while slowly dying in deep pain.

Update: I went back with both kids. The rule says only two people at a time, and I feel like a badass. Fuck the system! Just kidding. Right? She was more mobile than the first time, but her meds had definitely kicked in, her eyes were blurry. It seems that she might hold on longer than expected. With this blood infection left untreated (her decision), it’s scary to imagine what’s next. She has a strong faith, and I don’t know if she could legally access assisted suicide, but her God definitely wouldn’t let her. After losing her apartment last month due to her health, she also lost her place in the hospital because she refuses treatment. At the moment, she is practically homeless. What a nice way to go!

Cliché-up everyone, visiting my dying grandmother changed me. She might not die already, but it would be very surprising. My relationship with death is bizarre. I don’t mind people being dead, being gone. Coping with their absence is fine. The actual process of crossing the death line, exposing the body, burning and or burying the person, I don’t like. It’s full of contradictions, suddenly, nothing else matters, we can trash and pollute and not care for the planet because of the grief, but it’s everyone’s ultimate path, so how don’t we really care indeed?