I woke up at six am to a dog licking me and clawing at my bedside and thought that had ruined my morning. I rolled over; at the same time, somewhere else, an older woman couldn't even move. I slept a little longer until the phone rang and practically cursed at it as I rolled over again; at the same moment, somewhere else, a mother was calling her child to let her know that there was trouble. Finally at around nine, I got up. But that old woman didn't. She slumbered on a miasma of medication, hardly cognizent to her surroundings except that a few loved ones might be near. The phone rang again--this time I answered--and was warned that she might not make it much longer. I dressed and was on my way. It is my feelings that in a hospital, no one should speak unless behind closed doors. The dismal news of a failing loved one is not made easier by light-hearted chatter of other visitors. I walked down the halls to the room, passing many people on my way and wondered why they were there. Then I realized that I really did not want to know. For hours we waited, trapped there under the promise that the phone would ring, bearing news that might enlighten us about the situation. The old woman slumbered all the while. When I came in, she saw me and stared, and closed her eyes against...I don't know what; perhaps in the mercy of exhausting medication. At long last a doctor came in that would tell us what we needed to hear; what was wrong with her, how bad was the tumor, what can we do now, what are our options, how will this affect her, and so on. The lump on her neck is still a question mark; the only thing to be sure of is that it is the source of pain; the yeilder of death. Is it curable? No. Can we stop its groth? Possibly. Will it hurt her? Could. Can she pull through? The question at hand, brieched by the single most important and most difficult to answer; Is this what she would have wanted? No. We all agreed. Even her husband, who sat in a wheelchair beside her, reaching for her hand while struggling to stay awake himself. My aunt, mother, grandpa, and two cousins and I sat around the room and discussed. I glanced at the clock; 2pm. I was late. Excusing myself behind teary eyes, I hugged them all and told them to give me word if anything should happen, any decision be made. And regretfully and almost angrily, I went work. The trauma at Micheal's was the chance of a wighead stopping by the store; clean, clean, clean. I bit my lip and cleaned, confronted with obnixous customers and a phantom that was making messes everywhere I went. Kris came by. If there has ever been a test to his love and caring for me, well, he's aced them all. He understood what was happening, the decision to be made--do we wait till Monday when we can get a biopsy on the lump and then make a decision? Will she make it till Monday? Do we want to put her through the struggle of having the biopsy? What do we do after it? Radiation...she won't have the energy...Pills...might make her sick...every option seemed no option at all; she's just too fragile. Kris ran up to the house and took care of some things for me--minor details of ordinary life. I got off work at last, hurried home and found it dark. Called my mom, my aunt, Kris; no one answered. I got worried and almost scared when my phone rang; it was mom. She was still at the office--had missed most of, if not all of, the business day staying at the hospital. She said grandma had been moved to Hospice; the decision to let her go painlessly, as she would have wanted, was made. She's on her way home now (mom, and grandma I suppose) to change and then she's going to stay at the hospice place over night. I'll be at my sister's house with all the dogs since Jackie and Tim are still out of town. Cody doesn't like their dog, Santan, but he'll have to deal with it. In a sense, I am very happy with the decision that was made. Gram hasn't been really living for quite some time now. She's a strong cookie, but she's been pushed to rock bottom now and there's just no room for her to get worse in order to get better. A propper woman all her life, it shamed her to become old and frail, to have to wear depends and need constant assistance with all private affairs and even just meals and moving about. She was a party host, a librarian, a mother, and loved by everyone. She was the one you couldn't wait to tell good news too because her face would glow with excitement, just for you. Her lips, even now, are always a dark shade of pink as if she's wearing lipstick. Her nails were always painted a pretty pink, hair was always styled with a 1940's sway, and years ago she would over-feed us all with her turqoise, desert scene snack bowls filled with pretzels and chex mix. When she does leave us, I would like to remember her for these things, the better things, the real things that were my grandma. A deep voice, interested eyes, pink-rimmed glasses, soft slippers...my grandma. Gram.