Kate got the news today, in the form of an e-mail from her mother, that her grandmother Duggin (one of those cute family names--my own mother was Manya to her grandkids) went to the hospital yesterday in an ambulance. Kate called her mother immediately and learned that 
there had been no emergency. Duggin had been feeling tired and nauseous all week, and by Wednesday was feeling dehydrated. The hospital wouldn't have appointment time to help her for a few days, so Duggin called her daughter (Kate's aunt) Donna, a doctor. Donna advised that she go the hospital in an ambulance--she'd have a better chance of getting the treatment she wanted in the emergency room than by making a regular appointment. So on Thursday, that's what she did.
This left Kate feeling a pretty little mix of emotions. One of the big ones was hurt, at not being in the loop. After taking care of Dugs for several months, Katie's become quite close to, and protective of, her. She certainly felt slighted that no one had thought to call her--of course Duggin's own daughters Donna and Karen had been on top of things, but even so, my little bengal shares the love and sense of responsibility, so she felt left out. She was also hurt that Duggin hadn't turned to her for help--that out of too much deference Dugs was keeping her from showing a little more love. There was simple worry. Another daughter (four! Kate's mom Andrea is the fourth) Darlene took Duggin's little daschund Rosie back home with her. For Dugs to let Rosie go is significant. And Darlene might actually take Duggin into her home. So events seem to be moving more quickly now, gaining speed, and Kate's suddenly unsure how much longer her grandmother will be here. And that led to the next feeling, which has come to dominate her evening: grief.
So after hitting the gym (she'd learned about all of this just before we went), she called Duggin herself to check in. According to Kate, Duggin still sounded exhausted, hoarse, and resigned to feeling badly. Kate's consternation deepened.
Both my parents are dead, from cancer. I've learned that you never stop grieving. The grief grows more muted with time, and becomes more of a subtle backdrop to the rest of life, but it's never gone. And I know what it is to grieve for someone who's still alive. So I was surprised to find myself wanting to say the usual trite things like, "I wish there were something I could say." Even observing that living 81 years, and seeing her great-grandchildren (and seeing another great-grandkid growing inside Kate herself) is a life well lived--the same thing I said about Gram a week ago--seemed shallow and foolish. Words can't possibly control mourning: they can't really make an impact on it. So a kiss and a long hug once we got home had to suffice.
there had been no emergency. Duggin had been feeling tired and nauseous all week, and by Wednesday was feeling dehydrated. The hospital wouldn't have appointment time to help her for a few days, so Duggin called her daughter (Kate's aunt) Donna, a doctor. Donna advised that she go the hospital in an ambulance--she'd have a better chance of getting the treatment she wanted in the emergency room than by making a regular appointment. So on Thursday, that's what she did.This left Kate feeling a pretty little mix of emotions. One of the big ones was hurt, at not being in the loop. After taking care of Dugs for several months, Katie's become quite close to, and protective of, her. She certainly felt slighted that no one had thought to call her--of course Duggin's own daughters Donna and Karen had been on top of things, but even so, my little bengal shares the love and sense of responsibility, so she felt left out. She was also hurt that Duggin hadn't turned to her for help--that out of too much deference Dugs was keeping her from showing a little more love. There was simple worry. Another daughter (four! Kate's mom Andrea is the fourth) Darlene took Duggin's little daschund Rosie back home with her. For Dugs to let Rosie go is significant. And Darlene might actually take Duggin into her home. So events seem to be moving more quickly now, gaining speed, and Kate's suddenly unsure how much longer her grandmother will be here. And that led to the next feeling, which has come to dominate her evening: grief.
So after hitting the gym (she'd learned about all of this just before we went), she called Duggin herself to check in. According to Kate, Duggin still sounded exhausted, hoarse, and resigned to feeling badly. Kate's consternation deepened.
Both my parents are dead, from cancer. I've learned that you never stop grieving. The grief grows more muted with time, and becomes more of a subtle backdrop to the rest of life, but it's never gone. And I know what it is to grieve for someone who's still alive. So I was surprised to find myself wanting to say the usual trite things like, "I wish there were something I could say." Even observing that living 81 years, and seeing her great-grandchildren (and seeing another great-grandkid growing inside Kate herself) is a life well lived--the same thing I said about Gram a week ago--seemed shallow and foolish. Words can't possibly control mourning: they can't really make an impact on it. So a kiss and a long hug once we got home had to suffice.
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