Mortality Rates are High

There has only been one time in my life where I've cried so hard that I sobbed uncontrollably. It was in high school, when my Grandma had a heart attack.

At first I kept my cool. She had a quadruple-bypass surgery, and my aunt said she was doing well. I wasn't worried. My Mom went to stay with her for the week, and I was going to take care of her for the weekend.

Mom warned me that Grandma was going to be different. My normally upbeat, nice, polite, well-mannered, lovable Grandma had been changed by the experience. I wasn't worried, my Grandma was strong.

Grandma sighed. A lot. And the long scar shocked me more than I realized. Suddenly it hit me that Grandma was mortal. I could tell that she was depressed; she didn't ever want anyone to baby her or see her weak. It bugged her that anyone had to take care of her. She and I are alike that way.

Fast forward to my wedding, right after I finished college. Right up until the last minute, we didn't know if Grandma was going to make it there. I tried to not care if she came or not, but really I desperately wanted her to be there. She decided to get on the plane, and came she did. I was so happy that she was there. And she was back to my old Grandma again. She laughed, she joked, she walked around as if she never had any pain in her life. She sat on a stranger's lap and joked at the hotel, she was the best.

Last year I decided to go to my favorite city for my birthday, with friends. Every morning before we headed into the city, we visited with my Grandma for an hour or so. She was sad again, and we hadn't seen each other in a long time. But she was still gregarious to my friends, and forever asking if I was hungry and trying to give me things. I didn't get away without two coats of hers.

She told me that my aunt was trying to get her to move into an assisted living facility, but she didn't want to leave her home. I told her I'd never give up the house; I felt like I'd grown up there, and she seemed to be doing fine. I hugged and kissed her goodbye, and went back home and lived my life.

A few months later my aunt wore her down and got her to move into an apartment. After just a few weeks there, she started showing up in other people's rooms, losing her hearing aids, and eventually beating up on my aunt's boyfriend. I loved her for that last one.

She has dementia, and is living in a home now. A few weeks ago we went to see her, and it was the most heartbreaking thing I've ever had to do. She was unresponsive and obviously not my Grandma anymore. She had lost so much weight that I probably wouldn't have picked her out of a crowd.

A year ago she begged my Mom to kill her, she was so unhappy with living. She never wanted to lose her mind before she could just end it all. She would've hated that so many people saw her in a home like this. My mom and sister tried to engage her in conversation, telling her that her hair looked nice, and asking her what she ate for breakfast. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to take a walk. She just wanted to stare straight ahead.

A part of me understands. When I went through depression, that's all I wanted to do. Stare straight ahead and not interact, because I felt like my depression showed I wasn't strong, that I couldn't take care of myself.

She never wanted me to see her like that. She never wanted anyone to see her like that. It broke my heart that my strong, amazing Grandmother wasn't getting what she wanted.

It struck me then that I had the determination of my father in my DNA, along with her desire to not let anyone see her weak. I wasn't going to let it end the way my Grandmother didn't want it to.

When my time comes, I'm going be in control of when I leave this existence. And I won't ask help from anyone.