My great grandmother died in one of the two first floor bedrooms in the house where she had been born. She'd been sick all that summer, confined to bed, and had become querulous and demanding in her illness. She was ready to die and impatient to get on with it. She waved away food, medicine, all visitors, and refused to tolerate any effort at optimism. My grandmother sent me in to read to her and with surprising mobility, she snatched the copy of "The Water Babies" out of my hands and sent it flying against the windows before sinking back into the pillows and snapping at me, Leave me be! Her hair, free of it's coiled braids, spilled over her pillows and down onto her thin shoulders. It was entirely white now, nearly as white as her face with its deeply etched lines and creases. Beneath her skin, her veins showed at her temples and her wrists. She was like old parchment, cracked and frail and well worn, but mostly she was tired of being ill, tired of being helpless, tired of hanging on. Why doesn't He know that I'm ready? she would moan as my grandmother changed the linens and forced apple juice down her throat. Just a swallow or two, Mother, please, my grandmother would coax and the old woman would rage back at her and swat one arthritic, gnarled and swollen hand at the glass. Nana would sigh and her shoulders would sag in defeat as she left the room in tears.
My daddy, who only came for a week or two each summer, arrived in July. By then, the sickroom was kept dark and a hospital bed had been brought in. Nana had given up bringing in fresh flowers and opening the windows and there was a bad smell to the room, a combination of stale air, bedsores, infection and the old woman's waste. My daddy immediately opened the windows wide, sent me to pick wildflowers, and had my grandmother fill the old aluminum wash tub with water and gather towels and fresh sheets. He picked up the protesting old woman, slipped her nightgown over her head, laid her effortlessly in the warm water and began talking to her in a quiet, read-to-me tone of voice. He bathed her gently and washed her hair, then dried her off and wrapped her in Nana's thick, soft towels while he brushed out her hair then carried her to a regular bed by the window and laid her down.
He sat with her for several days, simply being there, sometimes stroking her withered hands or reading to her. He had brought a small tape recorder with him and he played her music every day, added blankets when she was cold, took them away when she was warm, brushed her hair every morning and watched over her while she slept. On the fourth evening, she closed her eyes and died quietly and at peace.
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