I’m not going to hide the fact that I’m extremely sad about my grandmother’s situation. Sure, she’s old. Sure, we should all expect grandparents to die. Sure, I’m lucky to have known her for this long. Sure and sure.

However, all of that does not stop the overwhelming sadness. It’s not just the dying. It was the horrible bedside manner of the doctor. When my grandmother asked, “what are you going to do for me?” He replied, “not much.” Thanks, doc. That was good.

In movies, the dying person says their loving last words and conveniently stops breathing. We said our loving last words nearly every night for a week. Everyone, including my grandmother, thought she would not make it until the next day. Then, my grandmother would ask, “when will I get out of here?” We did not know if she would rally one more time or not. After all this woman survived breast cancer about 40 years ago. Even two years ago, at age 100, she came back after everyone was sure she would die. She heard people saying she was going to die, got mad, and fought to come back.

She’d call us every morning at 7 am to tell us to bring vitamins, bring her sleeping pills, bring her aspirin.

One night, our hearts broke even more. We left the hospital at 10. She’d been uncomfortable for more than 2 hours and then finally fell asleep. When she was uncomfortable, that meant I stood by her bedside for 45 minutes adjusting pillows. When the bones are nearly sticking out through the skin, there’s not much comfort to be found despite the air mattress, regular mattress, extra pads and pillows. When she fell asleep that night, we decided not to wake her since she was peaceful. She called and said, “why didn’t you say goodnight to me? I waited and waited for you to come back.” I wanted to throw up.