Grandma passed away yesterday afternoon, just as they were preparing to transport her to hospice care. That’s the thing nobody wanted–not Grandma, not her four children. But the hospital said she couldn’t stay another night there. Thursday night had to be her last night. I prayed that she would pass away during the night, but she didn’t.
My Mom and Dad, my aunts and uncles–all were praying that she would die before it was required to take her to hospice care. They said that on Friday morning, Grandma was in some discomfort, but also didn’t want to be bothered. As Aunt Susie told me, “It was like she had something to do, and she didn’t want to be distracted.” I wonder if Grandma’s attitude was, “Don’t bother me, I’m trying to die.”
All of this could sound very morbid, I realize. But in this context–a family of Christians, and Grandma, who fully wanted to move on to heaven–it was nothing but celebratory.
The ambulance was supposed to come at 3 pm to take her to hospice, but they didn’t get there until 3:50. Some paperwork had to be done. Finally, as the gurney was being wheeled down the hospital corridor toward Grandma’s room, Dad noticed that she stopped breathing.
They’ve all been laughing about God’s timing, how he waited until the last minute. It’s also amusing that Uncle Marvin spent 90 minutes at the hospice filling out forms before he got the call that Grandma had passed away. When he got back to the hospital, he said, “Anyone need a hospice room? We’ve got one ready to go.”
So, the last of my grandparents is gone. Both Grandpa and Grandma lived wonderful lives, and scores of memories for me are wrapped around their farmstead outside of Van Wert, Ohio. Thanks, Grandpa and Grandma, for modeling the Christian life and for making it such incredible fun to be your grandkids.
(My brother Rick wrote about Grandma on his own blog.)
About two miles away, at Lutheran Hospital, room 354, my grandma is dying. This may be her last night. That is the wish of her children. And that is most certainly Grandma’s wish. Life support has been removed; bodily functions are shutting down; the morphine dose has been doubled to keep her comfortable. If she doesn’t pass away tonight, mom will meet with her two brothers tomorrow morning to make arrangements to move her to hospice care, because she can’t stay in the hospital another night.
It’s 10:30 Saturday night. I’m in the computer room putting together the announcement loop and song slides for tomorrow. And out in the living room, I can hear Connor giggling up a storm. Allen and Carolyn are with him. Pam (that’s her in the upper left, with Connor) went to bed already; for CPAs, the tax season is just about over, and she’s exhausted. Connor is in his little swing, and Allen and Carolyn are doing something to get him laughing. It doesn’t take much. 
