Damn Swede

It is interesting to see how people react to tragedies because each person has his or her own way of handling it.

When we first heard word of my family’s accident a couple weeks ago, another heartbreak was already in progress. My dad’s mother was taken to the hospital because her hemoglobin dropped to 8.6. In order to fix this problem, they can operate, do a blood transfusion or nothing. Nothing will result in eventual heart failure and an operation would be certain death. My dad and his siblings made the decision to do blood transfusions. At some point in the near future they will have to make the decision together on whether or not to continue treatment.

It was two years ago almost to the day when I had a premonition that my grandmother was going to pass away in a short time. It came on suddenly during a commercial break of the sudsy “Desperate Housewives” and was strong enough for me to coax my siblings to drive six hours to Upper Michigan in the dead of winter, sans spouses and children. A few weeks earlier, right around Christmas, my grandmother was moved from her assisted care accommodations to a nursing home due to violent outbursts and a hurt arm.

We made the journey and were not prepared for what we saw. Our grandmother looked tiny in her wheelchair and she couldn’t remember the stories we told or at times our names. In order to cope, my sister did “stuff”. Anything she could find to keep her hands busy and mind off the deterioration of our grandma’s health. Feeding Grandma, straightening things, posting new pictures of her children to the bulletin board in Grandma’s room and smiling uncomfortably when Grandma asked the same question for the sixth time. My brother, however, happily provided her with the answer, gently ribbing her about how she had already asked that question. Grandma would swoon like a teenager; my brother’s boyish good looks most likely taking her back to the time she first fell in love with my grandfather.

When Grandma wanted to rest, my sister and I were grateful for the opportunity to escape the confines of the nursing home, which seemed to get smaller the longer we stayed. Troy stayed behind, opting to read her scripture as she fell asleep. This ability my brother has - the ability to approach death as a natural part of life - is one that I truly admire.

Christmas 1998 (what is it with Christmas tragedies in my family?) was when my Grandfather passed away. I remember going to see him in the hospital and what I saw was devastating to me. His body remained, but there was no traces of the playful spirit I knew. His mouth lie open and frequent muscle spasms gave false hope for a recovery. I began to cry, slowing building to hysteria; the volume of tears causing my contact lense to wash out of my eye. Leaning over his bed, I whispered my goodbyes, stressing my love for him, left the room and did not return. My sister couldn’t bring herself to even enter the room. Eleven days passed and eleven days my brother was by Grandpa’s bed. He would leave for the hospital after breakfast and return late afternoon; spending the time in between reading and chatting away to no response.

During that road trip two years ago, as the three of us got stuck in the snow, watched movies and visited my grandmother, it occured to me that this is how it will be in the future. The three of us. At some point we will face the decisions that now face our father and we will have to do it together. Michelle will be there to do stuff. People will be fed, clothes will get washed and beds will get made. Troy will be our rock. As Michelle and I escaped from the nursing home that day, we both confessed that we only made it through the morning because of him. We took our cues from him, drawing from his calm demeanor to keep our own nerves under control and fears at bay.

And me. What do I contribute? I don’t know. That is probably a question for my siblings.