Nanny

One Sunday in late May, I was on my way to worship, alone - Joan was on a writing retreat with some friends, and Evan and Lora spent the weekend with my parents. I received a cell phone call from Aunt Becky, informing me that Nanny been rushed to the hospital in the night with a severe bleeding problem. Joan was to return from her retreat that afternoon from the airport that serves Aunt Becky's community, and she immediately changed her flight to check on my grandmother.

A phone call from Joan later in the afternoon confirmed our worst fears. Nanny had undergone emergency surgery to patch a blood clot in her chest cavity, as well as cauterizing an ulcer, and that recurring problems with her liver weren't helping matters. I met my parents with a heavy heart to pick up the kids. I would have to explain to the kids Nanny's situation as I told them why mama wasn't coming home as expected. It was a tough night.

But Nanny pulled through, and a week later she was back home in the apartment in Aunt Becky's house that she shares with Granddaddy, her husband of sixty-three years. Nanny slowly improved, and last Wednesday week I booked a plane ticket out out west for mid-July to spend some time with them all.

Then Aunt Sandra called last Friday week.

Nanny's internist called her in to reveal results from earlier testing. After giving her the results, he sent her home to "get her affairs in order," which is 21st century medical euphemism for "your condition is terminal, and we've done all that we can do."

Aunts Becky and Sandra were understandably devastated. As were we, 1800 miles away. Joan and I broke the news to the children and spent the next several nights crying and praying Lora to sleep. Evan slipped into a quiet funk. Joan began planning for the inevitable, a bit morbidly premature perhaps, but that's how she copes. I, on the other hand, was my usual cool self in a crisis, slowing to a glacial pace of life. I did have enough synapses firing, though, to realize that sticking with my planned visit in mid-July just might be too late.

So I flew out last Wednesday.

I wasn't quite prepared for what I encountered. Nanny had gone down considerably since I left her last November. She is so frail, and forgetful, and weak. She is already a shell of the woman I knew as grandmother.

She has been diagnosed with non-alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver, caused by hepatitis-C she picked up on a mission trip probably thirty years ago. She will slowly bleed to death.

To talk with her and Grandaddy is to wrestle with paradoxes. At times they are at peace with her passing, yet at times grasping for hoped healing. At times they are complimentary of her doctors, yet at times angry at them for undiagnosing her problem for so long and mis-medicating her. At times they are grateful for the phone calls from friends who have been informed of her condition, yet at times they bristle at the intrusions and displays of "premature" grief. At times they brag on the care Aunts Becky and Sandra give them, yet at times they complain about their lack of privacy.

At times Nanny reverted to her benevolent-controlling ways, yet at times she couldn't remember who she had just spoken with on the phone, or wanted to argue about whether she had taken her medicine. At times she giggled like a schoolgirl at her clumsiness and forgetfulness, yet at times she despaired as she struggled to remember a friend's name.

I was a paradox as well, oscillating from being frustrated at hearing the same stories for the hundredth time to being melancholy over her dementia. At times I was ready to return home to my world and its challenges until I realized that once I left that place and time it would be lost to me forever.

It would take a lifetime to explain to you what an impact Nanny and Granddaddy, Aunt Becky, and Aunt Sandra have had on my life, both positively and negatively. Neither aunt has children. I am the first-born grandson and the only one that is still in contact with them. Neither can I express the relief I felt walking into the house last Wednesday to find Nanny still alive. I had made it. On time. I got four good days with her. She may not remember them, but I will. I hope to get back to see her again before she goes, but if I don't, I know that I did my best, I did what I needed to do, I said my good-bye, and I will see her on the other side someday. I pray that I will mean to someone what she means to me.

Happy Independence Day, Nanny.