The Grammy Gives Us a Scare

As a hospice nurse, Kathleen has seen dozens of patients whose need for constant monitoring necessitates their placement in nursing homes. From that point, her experience has been that the patient usually begins a decline that lasts from days to months, often no more definable than a simple "failure to thrive". In fifteen years of hospice work, she has never seen anyone respond to nursing home care like the redoubtable Grammy.

My mother, the Grammy, took to the Queen Anne Nursing Home as if it were her long-sought destiny. For years, her favorite pastime had been lying in bed propped up by pillows, watching television while food was brought to her; here, that's what is expected of her. At 86, with slowly advancing dementia, her sole remaining pleasure is working her way through a feed of fried clams, shrimp cocktail, or Italian pastries.

The Grammy fires down an order of fried clams. Photograph and seafood courtesy of brother John.

However, on my visit last week, the Grammy was in obvious discomfort. She was coughing and in pain, to the point where she ate only the eclair, leaving the cannolo and the neopolitan untouched.

I tried to cheer her up by reminding her that her other son John would be visiting soon. In true Grammy fashion, she responded, "Do you think he's gay?" (Since discovering that she has a gay nephew, the Grammy is now suspicious of everyone.)

"What?" I responded. "Why would you ask that?"

"Well, he never seems interested in any girls."

"What about the one he married?"

"John's married?"

"Yes, and has a son. Gordon, your grandson."

"Oh yeah. Gordon. How's Gordon doing?"

Despite the unintended levity, I was not surprised when my sister called the next day to tell me that the Grammy had been taken to the hospital. John was coming up early from DC in case this was the beginning of the end.

When I visited the hospital, the Grammy did not look good. She was on a heart monitor and receiving oxygen and antibiotics. She acknowledged my presence, but was groggy and unable to converse. She occasionally moaned. A note on the television said that my sister, my niece, and their husbands had visited, but the Grammy had remained asleep. I have to admit to thinking that this might be her time.

But...no. A visit from brother John and sister Nancy the next day found the Grammy wide awake, communicative, and looking for goodies. By the end of the day, she was back reigning o'er Queen Anne. There are more clams to be eaten, more memories to be confused, more relatives to be suspected. The Grammy's work is not done.