Like I'm sure I've said here on WAF before, as she has aged, communicating has gotten a lot more difficult. Before she would speak English to me, and we could talk about things. Then she would begin to repeat herself over the course of the hour I usually spend with her. Then she wouldn't speak English, just her native Vietnamese. Still, she would talk incessantly to me as if I was able to speak Vietnamese, which I cannot.
That slow (and I hate to use this word) deterioration was hard to take, but it was, you know, OK. That was in March. In April I popped in only to see her asleep, and since I don't want to be waken when I'm asleep, I left the home early without talking to her. This time around she was napping, but she did wake up, or at least open her eyes. I said hi, and she just looked at me. When I asked her if I could sit and talk (well, more like look at her), she nodded, but she didn't speak.
Things are different with her, if things I saw in her room are any indication. She had the TV on (well, an orderly turned it on for her, I'm sure), but for the first time I can remember, the TV was muted and instead someone popped in an old iPod Mini and blared old time music from the 40's and 50's in the room. (It was tuned to A&E, and there was this footage of a car crash on the road. But since big band music was playing, and I didn't know the TV was on mute, I thought that big band music was the music bed for this found footage of the car crash.) She has been given packages of Lay's potato chips to eat, but there were about a half-dozen unopened ones on her tray and dresser. And on the drawer upon which sits the television set, there sat unconnected parts of what appears to be a breathing apparatus. I don't recall her ever having any issues with breathing.
As soon as I saw her, with the skin around her mouth drooping to the point where it creased an inevitable frown, I knew things may have taken a turn for the worse. For some time she no longer was the vivacious, even plucky, woman with the well-coiffed hair (she was a hairdresser) who gossiped about all the men who wanted to talk to her all day. Her hair, straggly for a long time, settled stiffly on her head. And while this was the first time in a long time I spent some time looking at her, intently looking at her, she nodded off a few times. She was still responsive; whenever she heard a noise in the hallway, she would open her eyes (if they were closed) and look up. But there was no talking while I was with her. Her energy has flagged significantly, and now it looks as though she needs help breathing, and that scares me for her future.
I had to go. I told her, and she surprised me when she asked, in English, "Where are you gonna go?" I said home. I took a couple photos of the both of us in case it was the last time. I kissed her forehead and cheek, and I whispered in her ear, "Thank you for everything. I love you." And then I grasped her hand for a long time, if indeed this truly was the last time. And then Grandmother's friend kept gripping my hand, and started touching and pinching parts of it. That actually lasted another 40 minutes; the 1:40 is the longest I ever stayed with her. Finally, she stopped holding my hand, and I took that as an opportunity to truly say goodbye.
Except that I didn't. I turned her wheelchair toward the window so I could get good pictures of the two of us, but as I left her room it looked as though she wanted to watch TV, but she had to look up and to her left to do so. So I went back into her room and reoriented her and her tray so that she could look straight at her set. And I just had to kiss her and tell her I love her again, but thankfully, she didn't hold onto me for dear life. However, I did say something I hesitated to say the first time: I told her I will see her again next month.
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