Much closer to home

I had mentioned in an earlier post that my grandmother was dying and that she was admitted to hospice. This was about a year ago, and she pulled though and was doing great, until a month ago. She is back in hospice, with an even short life expectancy than before.

I went to see her on Sunday with my father and we chatted and cleaned her house for her and visited with the other relatives that were there. I gave her a back and leg massage in her chair and she really enjoyed it. I felt good about being able to do something besides just sit there and be the granddaughter amongst the hubbub of visitors.

Kneeling down by her chair, rubbing her legs, my grandmother started talking to me as an adult, something she rarely does, even though I'm 32 years old. She normally tells me to 'go ask your daddy' things, instead of asking me what I think. This day she told me that she "wasn't faking this, as some of them think" and I let her talk. I did what I always did working with hospice patients, I let it be their time and let them have what they needed.

I left feeling drained and depressed. This is much different. Providing care for your own grandmother, and not someone elses. When I worked in Hopsice there is that magic thing called "boundries" and the knowledge that your responsibilites lasted the hour a week you were in the home. With this I took home much more information that I wanted about my aunts and uncles, about my cousins, about who is being nice, and who is being mean. I just don't want to know.

I rode home with my father, an hour drive, in a pseudo silence. A silence about what we had just expierenced. He is greatful for my help with the massage and my calm demenor during the visit. There is enough arguing and crying and flitting about these days.