The Night Nan Died

I know it will be tonight as we drive to the home. It’s only around five but it is already darkening. I see two stars in the sky and think I will remember this, even if it isn't important. It is a long, dark, quite drive. I cry. I don’t let them see me cry.

We walked into the room and she already looked like a corpse. She was lying so all straight and she was breathing unevenly, stopping at odd intervals and it sounded really rasping through the pipe in her throat. There is a nurse reading cards to her, although he head is turned away slightly. My brother and dad edge to the back of the room awkwardly. My mum stands there awkwardly, and the nurse leaves. We stand around for a while. There is a chair next to her and I go and sit on it. There are sides on her bed, and it is so long and wide. She seems so small and frail laid out on it. We have only spoken to each other, not to her. I take her hand. It is cool. Not cold, but not warm enough. I hold it. She does not hold back. I don’t know if she hears us or not.

Mum doesn’t know how to act. After a while she pulls up a chair and holds Nan’s other hand. She holds it for a while. My brother and dad go to sit in another room. It is mum, and Nan and me. Nan has a coughing fit, and her blank face turns pained and she yanks her hand away to flail at her throat. She calms down and I hold it again. Still no grip, no sign of consciousness. She shrugs me away again. I take her hand. She shrugs it away. I check my phone. I hold her hand again. She throws it away again. I talk to mum. It’s normal, boring, everyday stuff. We try to joke. Mum sees a nurse, tells her about the choking.

The nurse goes away and comes back with gloves and pipes. She turns on a machine by Nan’s bed. She has a long, clear plastic pipe in her hand and she sticks it carefully into the tube, sucking at the fluid there. Nan doesn't like it. She flings her arms around and tries to push the nurse off. But she carries on. I think I can see the pipe moving in her neck. The nurse is South African. She talks to Nan the whole while, calm and caring and sweet. She tells her what she is doing. The nurse stops and unplugs the machine. I ask her if Nan can hear us. She tells us to talk to her normally. But what is normal? There never was a normal. I try to say it will be okay, or that we are there. No other words come. Mum tries a few words too. But there are no words she’d like to hear. It is mum’s birthday. We went for a meal. But nan can’t eat, couldn’t for months. She liked food. It was a painful topic. I read through the cards the nurse was reading. I ask mum who these people are. I hope that the sound of familiar voices is comforting, is enough. To hear about people she knows, who are thinking of her.

Mum calls my aunt. She tells her Nan has 24/ 48 hours. My aunt won’t come. Maybe she is too far away. Maybe she doesn't think she’ll make it in time anyway. She lives a long way away. She tells mum to tell Nan she loves her, if she’s conscious. Mum goes to talk to dad. I don’t know what to say to mum. I don’t know what to say to Nan. I can’t make anything better. I can’t make it more peaceful. I can’t make it better. She wants granddad, but he is dead. It feels too morbid to tell her she’ll see him soon. She wants mum, but she has upset mum, drained mum. Mum is sad, but there is a bitterness. The last time Mum saw her, Nan didn't look at her. Mum returns, we are going home to get the car and then we will return. Just she and I, to stay with her. Mum stays by the door. I lean close to Nan. I tell Nan we are just going to get the car, we’ll be back soon. I don’t kiss her. I always kiss her goodbye. But I don’t.

We drive home. It’s dark. My brother sleeps. I cry. We get home. I wash my hair and I pack a bag. I put in work clothes and toothbrush and toothpaste and hair brush and pyjamas and underwear. Mum says we’ll leave in an hour. I watch some TV and go on the internet. It seems normal, too normal. Surreal. I wait for her to say we are going. She goes upstairs to rest. She comes down. She doesn't want to go back tonight. It’s late. Nan is probably asleep. Unless I really want to go back. I do. But Mum doesn't. I don’t want to upset mum. So we stay. I watch more TV. I go to bed and cry. I pray she’ll be alive tomorrow.

I wake up at 6. Mum is knocking on my bedroom door. Nan passed away at 5.30. I cry. I get up. I get dressed. I call into work. I go to the Christmas tree and take her present. She didn't want it anyway. I cried wrapping it up. I thought she might not make it. I knew she didn't want it. She didn't want anything. I give the present to another friend. I don’t tell them who it was meant for. I keep the label by my bed. At night I cry. I abandoned her. Did she wonder where we were? Did she think my last words were a lie? Did she lie there alone and think about how I left her? To watch TV as she lay dying.