Pictured above is me with the woman who repeatedly expressed in a round-about way that her mother-in-law, my grandmother, would be better off dead.
But this is only the beginning of my journey, which started on Saturday.
I arrived at DIA around 11:30, hoping for a quick shuttle ride to the hotel which turned into an hour's ride. At the Brown Palace, a colorful historic hotel in downtown Denver, I found an extremely charming hotel with great room service. They brought me a burger and a bottle of wine promptly, and I was very happy. I decided that, since I was alone it wouldn't hurt to have a cigarette, but after a half hour of searching, there was none to be found, and I'm still on-track. I slept well, took a nice long bath, posted a blog at a coffee shop, and then Richard arrived.
Richard and I had lunch, and after beer two I noticed the altitude. We continued onto a very charming wine bar, where we had a flight of sparklers and a (very generously poured) glass of pinot noir. We rushed to the wedding, which was lovely, perfect, and very very fun. We ditched early and went to JR's, on the eve on Denver's gay pride festival. Suffice it to say, it was a scene, thus crowded, thus boring.
The next morning we got room service (paid the bill, OMG, I know how to spend!), took our time, and caught a bit of the parade, then drove to the Springs, and that's where things began to be interesting.
My mom greeted me at the house. It was great to see the dogs, the house was beautiful, and the weather was perfect. Everything was shaping up to be perfect. We went to lunch and shared sandwiches, and I began to realize what my mother was needing, namely an uninvolved party to which she could vent.
You see, my grandmother had open-heart surgery three weeks ago, after which she suffered a stroke. Before the surgery, she was on oxygen therapy but was otherwise okay - she could talk, sit upright, talk and go about her business - doing the things she always does like watching TV, sitting and complaining. The events that unfolded leading up to and after the surgery (originally scheduled for early May) produced an invalid, unable to speak or precisely communicate. Over lunch, on the eve of my reunion with Grandma, my mother laid out the profundity of her injuries and the severity of the whole situation. Before I'd seen the ailing woman, my mother said in not-so-many words that my grandmother should never have had the surgery, and basically that she should be dead now, not half way there. I had to see for myself. Having to on account of curiosity, yes, but a real necessity. Deathbed shit.
At the care unit I did not recognize the woman. Perhaps I did not want to recognize her, a tuft of grey hair, one half of her body dead and swollen, eyes barely open. A hole in her throat allowed her to breath. When she did look, it was with terror, a muted cry for help. She squeezed my hand and nodded, but I could not understand her. I never could, Grandma and I never connected over anything save onions which, as it is now, she cannot even eat. I kissed her forehead, an action foreign to me, and I talked as much as I could. What do you say? "You look like shit my mother thinks you're better off dead"?
Back at the house, we are welcomed by the news that my father is stranded hundreds of miles away, too stubborn to have refilled the oil in the car. I decide to go for a run. I run over 6 miles, get rained on, and when I return home, my dad has reportedly run into some relatives who are bringing him back. One more tragedy, averted. I help my mom with her computer, then we head to dinner.
The original location for dinner is blocked by some biker festival, and we quickly relocate. I'm pissed, but stay cool.
Dinner, which would have originally been for 6 becomes 13, me, my sister and her husband, Mom and Dad, Grandpa and his "girlfriend" Becky (who never sees him unless we bring them together, he doesn't really care for her anymore), Tio Chito, his son and daughter-in-law, and their three children. Grandma becomes lost in the pursuit of reconnection, and we finish out the evening with dominos. I didn't think I'd had enough to drink.
The next morning, I go for breakfast with my mom, and again over a meal, she drops an insensitive bomb. "By the time all this is over it will cost more than she ever made in her life!" I wonder, out loud, if people who can afford care should receive it based on that merit alone. Of course, she agrees, but then her point becomes clear. Two-thirds of US healthcare costs go to end-of-life care. Damn, Mom, you're right. I guess my grandmother is better off dead. Unfortunately, that is not the right thing to say.
She's up, then sleeping, seeing out of half of her face. I saw her again in the morning, and I really thought she was doing better, but maybe I was just being helpful. I told her to behave. She nodded. I said "this isn't fun, is it?" and she shook her head. My mom is right and wrong. This situation should never have come to pass, but when it's my damn grandma, I won't quite consent to pulling the plug. My own mother, on the other hand - as we rode the elevator to the ground floor where we took the above picture says, "if I ever get that way, I want you to smother me with a pillow" - I'll know what to do.
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