Empty walls, heartbreaks and the end of days.
87 years of age. Most of us would happily live until that age, if given the option. We would even want to live for more than that. We look at the number, and see it as something positive as it would indicate a long life, but often without stopping to wonder about the consequences of that.
These past months have been a steep learning experience on human nature, human physiology, and our limits. Every single day brings something different, and if one is alert and receptive, it is easy to notice how your body and how your brain often don't cooperate and progressively make something that was once a given seem an impossible task. And, more heartbreaking than seeing someone become completely reliable on someone else, it's the not being able to do something to change it that really gets to you. We are human because, above anything, we are rational. But, more than than, we have an innate ability to empathise with the other, and somehow always want to do something to somehow improve their condition.
Physical degeneration is awful to witness. The being dependent on someone to even stand up and take a step, to eat and to do any routine task is a huge mental blow. But mental degeneration is even worse. Even if grandma's dementia often kicks in and she has moments when her words make no sense at all, referring to situations that simply did not happen, it is very difficult for us to keep composure when she is aware of what is happening to her and has crisis that can go from light to extreme, wondering why the gods to not take her. Things change out of nowhere, for no apparent reason. She can be apparently fine, laughing, to in the next moment become practically a vegetable. She barely moves, she barely speaks, she barely eats. Everything aches. The eyes become empty, grey, resigned. And often, as quickly as that cloud comes, it also goes away, and she has a little spark in her eyes again. You can feel, in these last days, that her body is progressively growing tired, her breathing is progressively heavier, and she is slowly but steadily approaching her journey to another world.
This weekend was again rough, and we again feared the worst. The doctors cannot do anything else to prevent it. We cannot do anything else to prevent it. But we can, with little things, still bring something positive out of her. We laugh in tragedy, we take things as lightly as they can possible be taken and, in the midst of everything, we are still able to be silly with one another. Even if the moments where she is conscious and aware are become increasingly rare, when they do happen, they are truly majestic.
Me and mama have just put her to bed. We lied down next to her, after giving her the pills she needed to take. Mama caressed her hair, I caressed her face. Her breathing was again heavy, and her eyes were shut. And, as she was trying to peacefully fall asleep, her hand comes from under the blanket to find mine, and she holds it. You could tell that bit of human affection had an impact, as she slowly drifted asleep, with an expression of comfort, of someone who is loved. Me and mama then started to quietly reminisce about the old days, about what was lived, about who grandma was. She was holding my hand. Mama was caressing her hair. I had my head in mama's belly. We were all affectionately touching each other, one way or the other. The light was dim. And, beautifully, it was one of the warmest and most intimate moments I can remember. Nothing else mattered, then and there. We were, the three of us, exactly where we wanted to be, with out hearts bursting with love and joy.
Age is irrelevant. There is no point in living a long life without love. But a life, no matter how short, no matter how difficult, but full of love, is the most beautiful thing that any of us can experience. And, no matter how rough things are, at times, with grandma, making her feel that she is immersed in love, and making her heart sometimes feel warmer and beat faster, in her last days, with me and mama feeling the same, is a true honour and privilege. There is no point in worrying about how much we lived. We should only worry about how much we love, and how much we are loved. That is the only currency that matters, in life. And, in this house, we may have limited resources, but love is everywhere.
August 2015
