Tenacity

"That was what, ultimately, war did to you. It was not the physical dangers - the mines at sea, the bombs from the air, the crisp ping of a rifle bullet as you drove over a desert track. No, it was the spiritual danger of learning how much easier life was if you ceased to think."
- Agatha Christie


I woke confused in a small, hard bed. I turned slowly, trying to find my bearings, trying to remember where I was. I glanced out the window at the unfamiliar landscape, dark and gray with snow covering the gently rolling hills. Memory was beginning to return to my weary brain. A two-cup Mr. Coffee pot in the corner caught my eye, offering the only hope of salvation.

I rolled out of the tiny bed and fumbled in the dark room for a light-switch. The overhead light hummed audibly. I slipped on a robe that was hanging from hook on a door and inhaled deeply. It had been several years since I had seen my grandmother, but her scent permeated her robe and instantly brought back memories of my childhood.

I was certain that for many people, the familiarity of Grandmother would be a comforting sense. For me, the memories were a slingshot propelling me back to the timid child who suffered her harsh words and devestating fists.

As I made coffee, I marveled at the situation I currently found myself in. Late the previous night I had arrived in the impoverished, coal-mining town I had unceremoniously fled so many years before. With no guidance except an eerily reliable navigation system in the rental car, I found my way to The Manor, my grandmother’s retirement home.

It struck me as humorous that places such as these were always given regal names - an odd slap-in-the-face to the lack of nobility each invariably contained within its crusty walls. I had been in many such places over the years, and regardless of the cost, they were all the same - residents decorated their doors with pathetic floral arrangements, newcomers were eyed suspiciously until the barrage of questions had been satisfactorily answered, requests were made to hold any baby that passed through the doors, and most disturbingly, the unmistakable stench of death mixed with old-lady perfume permeated every inch of the interior.

Yes, I was at The Manor. In a city I hated, without anyone to comfort me - I had been elected by default. My Grandmother had suffered a stroke. My mother phoned me from her vacation home in the South of France.

“Dear, I know you don’t want to hear this, but Gran has had a stroke. She hasn’t much time to live, I’m afraid. The doctors say that it’s only a matter of days. Even if I leave today, which I cannot, I won’t make it on time. Your uncle refuses to visit, he was there two months ago and said his good-bye. He can’t go back. And, well, since she always loved you more than anyone else anyway, will you please do this for Mommy?” I hated when she referred to herself as “Mommy” and I felt the stirrings of a massive headache.

“No, Mother. I will not. I cannot.” I replied. I didn’t need to contemplate the matter.

“Dear, I know how wretched she was to you. But you are a nurse. I know you will not allow her to pass through this world all alone.” My mother’s tone was saccharine. Her words were not exactly a manipulation, but I felt manipulated. She knew me well enough to know that I could not allow a family member, regardless of how horrible I had been treated by that family member, to die alone. She was also keenly aware that I felt burdened by the request.

“You’re paying for the trip.” I said, hating that I sounded like a spoiled, snotty teen. I thought I heard an exhale on her end, undoubtedly relief at being let off the hook, and easily at that.

“Yes, of course. I’ll confirm a rental car. You can stay in her sweet little room. She’s been moved to the infirmary. And check your email, I’ve sent the itinerary. You leave tomorrow afternoon.” She sent kisses, promised to make it up to me and quickly made excuses to say goodnight.

I was incensed when I realized that I had never had a choice, she had reserved my flight long before her phone call to me. I was even more irate that I’d be expected to sleep in a retirement home, my mother knew how much I hated them.

As I paced the tiny confines of the room, I muttered a string of profanities. I looked around the room absentmindedly surveying the few treasures that she had brought with her to The Manor. I cringed at her doll collection, laughed that she still had the candle snuffers from years past and carelessly juggled her Lladro figurines. Finally, I reviewed the contents of her medicine cabinet. Yes, I hated these places. Hospitals were charming comparatively.

In hospitals, the unpleasantries of human life could be bleached away, lopped off or otherwise contained. I decided to shower, to wash off the smell of Gran, then to head to the infirmary. It wasn’t so much that I was interested in a visit, but I knew the familiarity of white hospital walls and bed rails would comfort me.

As I left her room, a feeble woman approached me. “Dorothy, you’re going to be late for breakfast again.” Her cold hand gripped my forearm tightly and I smiled at her.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not Dorothy. I’m Agnes’ granddaughter.” I said. She looked at me condescendingly and shook her head, limping away on her three-footed cane. Part of me looked forward to being that forgetful. There was a certain luxury to be found in not knowing who you, or anyone else, actually were.

I found my way to the infirmary easily, and once inside, asked a blue-haired receptionist which room Agnes Griffin was in. She didn’t hear me, so I had to speak louder. Again, my voice wasn’t loud enough to permeate her auricles, so I found myself screaming at the adorable ancient behind the desk, “Agnes Griffin. What room is she in?”

People nearby turned to stare at my screaming and I felt myself shrinking from the spectacle I was causing. A woman close to my age approached me, smiling. “You must be a relative. Right this way.”

“Actually, I’m her granddaughter, Anna. Are you taking care of her?” I asked.

“I’m her nurse until 7 PM. I’m Chase.” She extended a hand to me and I accepted it gratefully. It was a relief to speak to someone at a volume that didn’t cause the walls to reverberate.

“Nice to meet you, Chase. How is she doing?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s hanging in there. How much do you know?” She inquired.

“Well, all I was told was that she had a stroke. I looked through her medicine cabinet and saw Lasix and Atenolol, so she’s obviously hypertensive. There was also some Ativan, Seroquel, and Aricept. I guess that means the Alzheimer’s hasn’t gone into remission.” I winked at her.

“We aren’t really sure how impaired her memory was before the stroke, so it’s making it tricky to assess her. But I‘ll tell you this much, she sure remembers me every morning.” Chase said, her voice already fatigued even though her shift had just begun.

“I’m afraid I won’t be much help. I haven’t seen her in three years.” I said, feeling a pang of regret for the first time since my arrival. “Has her internist made rounds yet?” I asked.

“Nope. You’ll be able to catch him shortly, though. Let me take you to her room.” I followed Chase down the utterly familiar corridor. If there was one institution around the world which never changed, it was a hospital. The familiarity did bring me the comfort that I had expected and hoped for. The infirmary was far preferable to the residential wing of The Manor.

Chase did not enter the room with me. I entered silently and pulled a chair closer to the bed. My grandmother slept peacefully, I had no intention of interrupting her. I looked over her sleeping body, marveling at how, at such an advanced age with Alzheimer’s Disease, she could still be so fat. Most people simply forgot to eat. Of course, Agnes Griffin was never happier than when there was food to be had.

My only fond memories of my grandmother involved cooking. In the kitchen, she miraculously transformed herself into an alchemist - mixing sparse ingredients into veritable works of art, sharing her knowledge with me patiently and with a rare enthusiasm. We’d prepare beautiful plates of carefully prepared dishes to serve the family and laugh robustly as we ate.

After dinner, Mother and I would scurry the plates off the table and hustle into the kitchen where we’d insist on cleaning up. If we could remain isolated in the kitchen until Grandmother fell asleep on the sofa, everything was wonderful.

If anyone failed to show enough gratitude for her culinary gift, or dallied for just a moment too long before offering to wash the dishes, the wrath would be unleashed and you’d spend the next twenty minutes sweeping up shards of Corelle.

I noticed how thin her white hair had become and involuntarily reached a hand out to stroke it. She flinched a bit at the disturbance and I quickly recoiled. I needed time to prepare to speak to her, I wanted to speak to her physician, to understand the gravity of her condition, before we engaged.

The girth she still carried suited her quite well, and I was stunned at how beautiful her skin remained, even on her deathbed. The plump of her cheeks was exactly as I had always remembered it, the rosy apples making me wonder briefly whether she was septic from some unknown source. No, of course not. She had always had rosy cheeks and perfect skin. She had been quite a beauty long into her senior years.

I leaned my face close into hers and listened to her breathing, even and unlabored. I thought to myself, ‘This isn’t going to kill this old bag. She’s just too mean to die.‘ and felt like I had discovered the secret elixir to longevity - badness.

A quiet knock on the door startled me and I sat bolt upright in the chair. The door pushed open and her physician entered.

“Hi there. I’m Goran Levy. Chase told me that you are Anna, her Granddaughter. And she thinks you must be a nurse, since you snooped through her medicine cabinet.” He extended a hand to me and I rose to greet him.

“Yes. It seems you know all there is to know about me.” I smiled. “How is she?”

“That’s not an entirely easy question to answer. I’ve been following Agnes for several years. She’s hypertensive and we thought we had that fairly well controlled with medication. Her stroke was a thrombotic event of the right anterior cerebral artery. We’ve had some difficulty assessing the extent of the damage due to her Alzheimer’s Disease, which is quite advanced.” He crossed the room and sat on a small dresser. “Ironically, the stroke seemed to help her memory. A week ago she kept calling me ‘John’, but yesterday, she knew exactly who I was.”

I laughed out loud. John was my father, and there was a resemblance between the doctor and my father. At least, Dr. Levy resembled what my father must have looked like the last time she saw him. I began to explain the confusion, then Chase popped in the room and tossed a small stack of magazines on the sink. “In case you get bored.” She said, before closing the door behind her.

“Is she verbal?” I asked, the brief interruption erasing every sensible question I had.

“Oh yeah. You’ll find that out soon enough.” He snorted a chuckle. I wasn’t terribly puzzled by his reaction, I suspected he’d been the recipient of her vicious tongue on more than one occasion. “She has some left-sided paralysis, but we haven’t really given her the opportunity to test her limits yet. She’s been pretty combative. If you’re wondering why she’s sleeping so soundly, it’s because I ordered some Haldol for her today. The nurses requested it.” He smiled broadly at me.

“Oh, I see. My mother said that the situation was quite grave. But, Dr. Levy, as I look at her, she looks pretty good, all things considered.” I said.

“Yes, you are right. I told your mother that I thought she’d probably just pull through this. I doubt she’ll ever regain full mobility, but the Old Battle Axe will probably make a full recovery.” He said. “And don’t worry. I call her that all the time.” He winked.

“That’s much nicer than some of the things I’ve called her.” I admitted, shrugging my shoulders.
I wanted to scream and strangle my Mother. Not only was I forced into being here, I was brought under false pretenses. It seemed terribly unfair but I had to find a way to resign myself to my fate. I was here, and I could use this opportunity to say good-bye, like my uncle had two months prior. My mother had exceeded her favor quota, and when the time came for my grandmother to actually depart this Earth, she’d find her only daughter by her side, and only her daughter by her side.

Dr. Levy removed a stethoscope from his coat pocket and approached my grandmother. Gingerly, he listened to her heart and lungs. I could tell he had no interest in disturbing her sleep, either. I stared intently at her face as he approached her, wondering if she’d notice. I saw her right eye open briefly to look at him, then quickly snap shut as he neared.

He held the stethoscope towards me and said, “Care to listen? Clear as a bell. She’s had a benign systolic murmur for as long as I’ve known her, but otherwise...” His voice trailed off and I shook my head ’no’ at the offer to assess her. “I’m going to finish rounding. I'll be here all day, so have them page me if you need anything, Anna. I’ll check back later.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” I said, crossing the room to select a magazine, then plopping into the chair next to Grandmother. ‘He’s nice enough.’ I muttered to myself.

“He’s a useless Bohunk Jew just like your father.” The words weren’t spoken, but hissed in a barely audible tone. I turned abruptly to stare at my grandmother, my heart pounding. She laid peacefully with her eyes closed. For a moment, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, that the pain of being near her was causing my psyche to imagine things. But as I stared at her, I saw the right corner of her mouth curl into what I thought was a smirk.

I turned away from her with tears stinging my eyes. I swallowed hard, a vain attempt to digest the lump in my throat. As I looked back at her, I noticed the effect her stroke had on her - while the right side of her mouth now clearly smiled, the left was immobile. I hadn’t imagined it at all. Her pathetic state softened me momentarily, and a single tear rolled down my cheek.

I reached down and squeezed her left hand, much harder than necessary. She didn’t return the gesture, which proved only that she was unable, but certainly not that she was unaware.

“Hi Gran. How the hell are you?” I asked, my voice louder than necessary, trying to sound unphased by the insult. Her eye flashed open and strived to look at me. I saw the clear blue that was so familiar, an unmistakable light flickering within. Venom.

It was the blue of a cloudless summer sky. The blue of my mother’s eyes, but not the blue of my own - a fact that she had reminded me of countless times over my lifetime. “You’d have our eyes if your mother hadn’t gotten knocked up by that dirty Jew. Our eyes are cornflower, the color of purity. Yours have been muddied up, Anna. Such a shame.”

I’d run and stare into the mirror after her vitriolic assaults and pray - ‘Please God, please. Let me have their eyes. I’ll do anything to not be dirty anymore.’ In my youth, I never understood her insults, I only knew that for some reason, I would never be fully accepted as the person I was.

“I must be dying if you’re here.” She said, her one eye alternately narrowing and opening in an attempt to focus on me.

“No, you’re going to be fine. Just like you always are. You’ll outlive me.” I said, leaning in towards her, trying to make it easier for her to see me. I was surprised that she recognized me. It seemed as if her Alzheimer’s Disease was, in fact, in remission.

“Anna, do you remember how much fun we’d have cooking together?” She asked.

“Of course I do.” I forced a smile.

I bit my bottom lip hard, fighting the urge to shout, ’I also remember when you called me a dirty whore in front of my school friends and I had no idea what your words meant. I remember the way your spittle felt as it hit my face as you called me name after vile name as you dragged me into the house, your fingernails digging into my arm. I remember the throbbing pain as you punched me repeatedly in the face and chest. I remember how much of a relief the physical pain was then because it allowed me to completely disassociate myself from the moment.’

Yes, a huge part of me wanted to have this conversation with her. To prove to her that I was no longer afraid, to prove that she had lost the control she had held over me for so many years. A smaller part of me wanted to punch her face, just once.

But I was not her. I was not this bitter woman in front of me. My life had been dedicated to helping the sick and elderly. I was unable to separate my profession from my personal feelings. I forced a smile in her general direction and flipped the pages of the magazine, trying to lose myself in idle gossip.

“My birthday is Friday. Did you remember that?” Her words were full of anger again.

“Yes, Gran. Of course I do.” In actuality, I had not remembered, but I suddenly realized why my mother had tricked me into this visit now. I reached out to pat her leg. “ I‘m not here because you‘re dying. I‘m here to celebrate your birthday.” I was proud of my lie.

“Honey, I’ll be dead then.” She snorted.

“Gran, you’re going to be fine. I spoke to your doctor and he thinks you look great. I’m looking at you and I think you look great.” I said, trying to reassure her, now firmly playing the role of nurse.

“No, I want to die on my birthday just like my mother did. It seems like the right thing to do. Ninety-six years is long enough to fight.” She said, her voice soft for the first time since I had heard it.

Maybe she would. The old bat had controlled everything in her life so precisely for the previous ninety-five years, it seemed completely plausible that her death would be no different. She shifted away from me and closed her eyes. I watched her settle for a few moments, then heard her breathing find a sleeping rhythm.

I thought of how many times I had seen it in my own practice - when someone chooses to die, they die. When a person decides to live, the survive. Our minds were miraculous tools that could allow us our destiny; all too often we failed to realize how powerful the tool at our disposal truly was.

I found it odd that she had said she was tired of fighting. Every day of her life had been a battle of her own initiation - propagated by anger, hate and a defeatist world view. I wondered if the battle hadn’t become so much a part of her very being that she even remembered what she was fighting for.

As I sat passing judgment on her, I realized that I had spent a lifetime fighting my own sorts of battles. I fought for my freedom from her clutches as a child, I fought to get out of this awful town, I fought for my education, I fought for friendships that ultimately didn’t matter and I even fought to maintain a marriage that meant little.

Granted, my battles were fought far more silently than hers, my gentler nature preferring to control things from behind the scenes while hers was an all-out assault on anyone and everyone. I was certain that while her method hurt those around her more greatly, mine fed the cycle of pain she had begun inside of me so many years prior. I shook my head. It didn’t matter how you chose to fight, a fight was a fight.

I realized that history doesn’t have to repeat itself. You can observe history, learn from it and ultimately, rewrite history. At least, you could rewrite your own history. I couldn’t change the old woman that lay in front of me, but I could certainly change what sort of old woman I would become.

I promised myself that I would no longer fight make-believe battles. I vowed to become a more passive participant in my life - celebrating the joys while acknowledging the grief, and accepting each outcome as it came. But I would never again allow things to become as hard as I often made them. It was an exercise in futility, one that ultimately only caused me to harden a bit, to fail to celebrate the miracle. I would watch the miracle unfold in front of me, especially for me.

I sat at my grandmother’s bedside for hours, listening to the sounds of a hospital functioning - lunch trays delivered, medications administered, visits from specialists, family members arriving, people being taken elsewhere for testing, visitors leaving. My grandmother did not stir again.

I rose to leave, and leaned over and kissed her chubby cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Gran.”

I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to her musty room, so I wrapped the inadequate coat I had brought along tightly around me and left The Manor. I needed to walk, to see people actively living. I searched for a semblance of familiarity in the town I had grown up in.

It seemed as if time had ceased in the 1980’s - nothing had changed - and yet everything seemed foreign. Eventually, I came across Flannigan’s, an Irish Pub that my mother had frequented when I was far too young to enter the sacred walls. I realized that I was hungry, and as the pub was the only open establishment I could find, I entered.

Irish Pubs were the only type of place I could think of that were as identical around the world as hospitals. Guinness signs lined the walls and dark wood paneling was de rigeur. Old men lined the bar, while lovely young women slung pint after pint towards their greedy mouths deftly evading the slurred come-ons of their father’s friends. I found an empty stool, requested a menu and ordered a pint.

The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke was preferable to the smell inside The Manor, and after I ate, I stayed much longer than necessary. I was genuinely enjoying chatting with the old men about the town, asking if some of the people I remembered from my youth were still around and telling them the sorts of lies they wanted to hear.

I drank enough that returning to The Manor was not as creepy as I had feared. My intoxication made crawling into my grandmother’s bed virtually painless and sleep quickly found my weary head.

I woke late on Thursday morning, my head pounding from the consumption of the previous evening. I didn’t have the energy to muck around with the small coffee pot, so I dressed quickly and walked out of the retirement home, looking for a coffee shop.

The crisp morning air was refreshing, clearing my head a bit. Much to my surprise and delight, I found a Starbucks. ‘Wow, this place isn’t a complete shit-hole.’ I thought to myself. I ordered a coffee for me and one for my grandmother, along with a slice of lemon pound cake. I wasn’t sure if she’d be able to eat, but if anything would entice her, sweets would. It was only a short walk back to The Manor.

Once inside the infirmary, I ran into Dr. Levy. “She’s been asking for you this morning.” He said. I forced a half-smile.

“Anna, her condition has changed. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on. She might have thrown another clot, or it might just be from the medication. I’ve ordered a CT and we’re going to back off some of the meds until we can pinpoint a reason.” His tone was firm and informational. I smiled at the effort, thinking of how many times he must have delivered such a speech to concerned family members. He had little idea how little I actually cared.

“Do whatever you feel is necessary. But I can tell you with certainty that she hasn’t thrown a clot and it’s not from the medication. She has decided to die.” I handed him the extra coffee I held. I was certain that my grandmother wouldn’t be up for a morning snack after hearing his report.

“Hmmm. I think you’ll find that her situation has definitely taken a turn for the worse when you see her.” He said. His look was suspicious, slightly mocking.

“Dr. Levy, I have no doubt. But I can assure you that it is a decision she has made. It’s a choice. Her birthday is tomorrow and she wants to die on her birthday. She told me this yesterday after you left.” I studied his face carefully for a reaction.

There was a huge difference between medicine and nursing and I knew enough to expect a certain amount of skepticism on his part.

“People don’t just decide to die, Anna.” His statement surprised me, and now it was my turn to return his mocking glance.

“Really? You’ve spent a lifetime healing the body. Surely you don’t only pay attention to lab values, vital signs and imaging studies.” It was more of a question than a statement. I was annoyed with myself for being so confrontational with this kindly man. I was taking out the aggression I felt towards my family on him, egged on by the hangover that had receded only slightly.

“Of course not. But the facts are the facts. She has taken a turn for the worse and it’s my job to figure out why.”

“I’ve already given you the “why”, Dr. Levy. She has decided. Surely you’ve seen it before?” I asked him.

“No, I’ve never seen anyone choose to die.” He said flatly.

“Then, you haven’t been paying attention.” I grimaced, wanting to walk away from this conversation, yet still wanting to make sure he heard my point. “There’s one thing that nursing has over medicine - it’s more holistic. You treat the hypertension by the numbers. We treat the hypertension by trying to ease the pain that’s causing it, or by soothing the tension that feeds it. You look at my grandmother dying and wonder, ‘What is the etiology of this?’. I look at my grandmother dying and think, ‘Wow, she’s finally going to let go.’ It’s mysterious, certainly. But it’s also beautiful.” I said. I saw him glance at his watch.

“I postpone death. I don’t find beauty in it.” He said.

“No, no. You misunderstand me. It’s not the act of dying that’s beautiful, although there is something serene about a peaceful passage. It’s the power of the mind that holds so much beauty. Do you understand that?” I asked him.

I began to walk into my grandmother’s room, and I noticed that the doctor was following me in. Once inside, he walked briskly past me and over to my grandmother. Placing his hand on her shoulder and patting gently he said, “Agnes, Anna is here now. The nut sure doesn’t fall far from the tree.” He smiled at me and left, closing the door behind him. His words made my stomach churn. I was nothing like her.

“Good morning, Gran.” I said, gently shaking her shoulder. “How are you feeling today?”

“Oh, pretty good, I guess. For an old broad.” She chuckled, her words slurred from the stroke, but with an unmistakable clarity.

“I’m glad to hear that. Still planning to kick the bucket tomorrow?” I asked. An onlooker might have found my cavalier attitude off-putting, but it was the way she liked to be spoken to, the sort of language she understood.

“Yes. I’m ready. Don’t you think it’s nice to die on the day you were born?” She asked me.

“Not particularly, Gran. But whatever floats your boat.” I responded, pulling my chair closer to her, smiling at her genuinely.

“Remind me, honey. Are you still married?” She asked.

“No, Gran. I’m not.” I said.

“You have children, right?” She asked me.

“Yes.” I replied simply.

“It’s very hard to be a single mother. I was, you know.” She said.

“No, Gran. You were married to Gramps until the day he died.” I spoke gently, not wanting to upset a fantasy she was holding on to, if there was a fantasy to be had in such a thought.

“Yes, I know that.” She hissed, “But I did it all alone. If he wasn’t in the mines, he was at the bar. If he wasn’t at the bar, he was in bed with some nasty whore of a woman. If he wasn't in bed with some floozy, he was passed out on the couch. He might have been my husband, but he was never there.”

I saw her in a different light - a world-weary, hardened woman. For only the second time since my arrival, I felt a touch of remorse - guilt, regret, pity - for my grandmother. Maybe she was a gem - flawed, like any other thing of great beauty, but precious and rare all the same.

“I didn't know. I just remember him saying the sweetest things to you.” I said.

“Anna, the sweet nothings of a drunk aren’t sweet.” Her tone became lower, I could tell our conversation was beginning to exhaust her. “If you learn nothing from this dying old woman, learn one thing. People can say whatever they want to say. Never trust words. Never delight in the sweet musings. Only watch actions. The actions of a person are the only thing that mean anything.”

She turned her face to the ceiling and closed her eye. I patted her arm. “Get some rest, Gran. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

She slept fitfully, her little fists clenching into balls, tossing and turning as much as her crippled body would allow her. I suspected that she was becoming hypoxic, but it didn’t much matter. I knew that by this time tomorrow, she’d be dead.

An hour, maybe two, passed before she woke. Her eye scanned the room for me for a few moments before I noticed that she was awake. I leaned over her and told her that I was still there.

“You know, you’re the smartest one of us all. Your mother has always been a stupid woman.” She was slinging barbs again. I wanted to change the subject. “A handsome man only has to look in her direction and she’s in love.”

“Is that really any different than it is for any of us?” I asked her.

“You were always different. You wouldn’t give the fools the time of day. You didn’t marry any of these small town boys. You left.” She said. “You were smart enough to get the hell out of his place before it ate you alive. Every one of those little sluts you went to school with was pregnant before they finished high school, and they’re all still here, living their miserable lives.” I could hear the effort in her voice.

“Well, Mother left too.” I pointed out.

“She left when it was too late for her. You’re younger now than she was when she left and you’ve been gone, what 10 years already?”

“Actually, it’s been 18. But I married the first man that asked. I’m not so much different.”

“No, you little bitch. Quit talking and listen to me.” Her words shocked me into silence.
I leaned away from her and contemplated leaving.

“You’ve always been a fighter. You’ve always known what you wanted and you made it happen. Your mother wouldn’t know opportunity if it slapped her across her stupid face. She just sits back and waits for shit to magically happen. You, well, you’ve got a brain and you use it.” She was smug and I watched her mouth tighten into a familiar scowl.

“Maybe. But you’ve got a mouth and you’ve always used it. I’m not sure that’s better, necessarily.” As soon as the words were spoken I regretted the comment.

“Don’t think you’re any different than me. You just smile prettier. We’re the same person and we always have been. The only difference between you and me is that you just pretend you’re not as mean. You’re still a little afraid to say what you want to say.” Her voice slowed. It was taking her longer and longer to get the words out, but I could tell she had not finished.

“It took me forty years to realize that I could say anything I wanted to say and that it didn’t change a thing. Some people will hurt you, some people will love you. Some people will leave and others will stay. You can say anything you want to say to anyone and it won't change a thing. Start now. Don't wait until you're old, or until someone hurts you badly enough. Say whatever you want to say, whenever you want to say it. If nothing else, it's fun to watch people's reactions.” I thought I heard her voice quiver.

I was tempted by her offer - tempted to tell her what a vile woman she had always been, tempted to tell her how much pain she caused me. Instead, I said, “Earlier today you said that words don’t matter, that people can say anything and it means nothing. Now you’re telling me I should say whatever I want.”

“Yes, Anna. That’s exactly what I’m telling you. It's the same thing. It doesn't mean one single thing. Actions matter, words do not.” She nodded her head. “I’m right, you’ll find that out.”

Sleep quickly overtook her, ending the torment. Her breathing had changed, I could hear the first crackles of fluid building in her lungs.

I said to her sleeping form, "No, Gran. You are wrong. Words do have weight. You might want to think you've been slinging dull arrows for fifty years, but not all of them have been. The pointed ones hurt, and each one steals something from someone that can never be repaid. Not by your own atonement, and not by anyone else's reassurance."

It was quite late into the evening, and I decided to head back to Flannigan’s. I wasn’t sure how long she’d hang on the following day, but I knew the day would be challenging for me. A cold pint and a good sleep seemed the only possible preparation for the day of my grandmother’s birth, the day of my grandmother’s death.

I wasn’t anticipating feeling the anxiety that I felt, but Friday morning I woke long before the sun. I laid in my grandmother’s tiny bed and tossed and turned until my back ached from the near constant motion on the hard surface. I showered and dressed slowly, trying to draw out the moment. I knew she’d wait for me, regardless of how long I took.

I walked to Starbucks and got coffee for myself and Dr. Levy. For Gran, I selected a cupcake. The Barista acquired one single candle for me. Dr. Levy was waiting outside of her door when I arrived, just as I suspected he would be. I smiled at him and handed him the cup of coffee.

“Subcutaneous emphysema.” He said.

“Yeah, I heard it starting last night when I left.”

“I thought about what you said last night.” He said.

“Oh?” I asked.

“I think you’re probably right, and I think I have seen it in the past. I just didn’t realize it at the time.” His eyes were downcast.

“We’re just trained differently. Trust me, if I could manage my patients with drugs and cold, hard facts, I would in a heartbeat. But I’ve had to learn to rely on the tools that are actually at my disposal, which oftentimes is just my voice and my presence. It's forced me to learn how to read the subtleties, to understand healing and the mind a little differently.” I reached out and patted his arm. I found him to be a very sweet man and suspected it took a great deal for him to have this conversation with me.

“I’m not all about facts and lab values.” He said.

“Oh?” I asked again. I wasn’t going to give him an inch. I wanted to make him work a little.

“No. I mean, at work, that's what I know. But I love things that are a little more ephemeral too. I love mythology.” His voice became quiet, almost timid. It was unlike what I had come to expect from him. “I’m sure you know the mythology of the Griffin.”

“No, actually, I don’t. In fact, I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.” I said, genuinely.

“In Greek mythology, the Griffin was a beast with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. It guarded treasure.” He was still unable to look at me. He shifted his body weight from foot to foot, nervously. He paused a moment before uttering softly, "I think you might be the treasure she’s protecting.”

“I’ve never even heard of it. I’m glad you didn’t say it was a beast that burst into flames at the moment of its death. That could be messy here.” I laughed at my joke, he did not. I walked past him into my grandmother’s hospital room.

“Hey, old woman. I’m back. I brought you a birthday cake.” I said loudly, hoping to wake her and holding out the cupcake with its lone candle to her good eye. I didn’t have a way to light the candle, but I supposed it didn’t matter. “Blow out your candle.” I said to her.

She attempted to pucker, the left side unable to comply. As she exhaled in the general direction of the candle, an outrageous coughing fit began. I rolled her to her side and patted her back. After a few moments, she caught her breath. The rattle was much louder than it had been the previous evening and I could feel fluid crackle under my touch.

“Hey, Doc, how about some morphine?” I asked.

“Sure, I’ll be right back.” He left the room.

As the door shut, my grandmother reached out for me. “Happy Birthday to me.” She said.

“Yes, Gran. Happy Birthday to you. Please don’t make me sing.” I smiled at her.

“No, of course not. You’ve always been a lousy singer.” She said.

“Yes, I have.” I acknowledged.

Dr. Levy walked back into the room with a vial of Morphine. I smiled at him as he drew up the drug and pulled my chair back to my normal spot. He injected the drug into her IV. It was only a few moments before her respirations slowed slightly.

I smiled. “You don’t have to fight, Gran.” I said. “It’s never been a battle.”

She shook her head ‘no” and settled into her bed.

“I always loved you best, you know.” She stated.

“You sure had a funny way of showing it.” I said.

The doctor turned to leave but I motioned for him to stay. I didn’t want to watch my grandmother die alone. I watched his hands cross over his chest, tucking his hands into his armpit. For all of us, the act of doing nothing at the moment of death was always the hardest part. In one regard, our training was similar, we were trained to intervene.

“Why were you always so horrible to me?” I asked her.

“I wanted to make you strong enough, dear. I wanted to make sure you’d have the fortitude.”

I reached out and patted her head. She returned her gaze to the ceiling.

“William.” I heard her mutter.

“Your grandfather?” Dr. Levy asked me.

I nodded. “I’m sure you’ve seen that before, right?”

He nodded. It was one of the greatest mysteries of death. Often, as the darkness neared, people would begin conversations with those that had passed before them. I longed to know if it was hypoxia, wishful thinking or a true reunion.

My grandmother reached a hand out for me and I took her limp hand in mine. I kissed her chubby cheek one last time and said, “Good bye, Gran.” I wanted to tell her that I loved her, but I could not.

One final, hoarse whisper escaped her lips. “Anna, I’ve always been jealous of your beautiful eyes.”

I stared at her in amazement as I watched the light, the life, drift out of her cornflower blue eye.