It seems like yesterday but at the same time a decade removed. (Time is buggy when you’re in the thick of emotional intensity.) That was the day my paternal grandmother Christianne Caggiano took her last breath in a hospice facility in Florida.
I knew the day would come eventually. She was nearing 100 and no one lives forever. Yet I always thought about the eventuality as a matter of “someday.” In my experience, it’s easier for our brains to work through tough stuff when we can put it in a tidy little box to deal with on another day, presumably. And as her power of attorney and executor of her estate, I knew her passing would come with great responsibility. Boy, was I right.
The weeks and months that led to this day were a flurry of activity. In March 2023, she was admitted to the hospital for uncontrolled diarrhea. She became so weak from the hospital stay that she was admitted to a rehab facility to regain her strength. She was there for three weeks and naturally was eager to come home. As fate would have it, not even 15 minutes after settling in at home, she fell while using her walker. (I was nearly incredulous when I got that call.)
The fall was pretty severe, so much so that she suffered an acute eye injury and fractured her pelvis and shoulder. Luckily, a home health aide was there when it happened and called for an ambulance. She was transported to the local hospital ER, where they determined she needed to see a specialist more than an hour away to save her vision. Medical transport brought her to a medical center in Miami for what would be the next leg of many in her medical journey.
My grandmother, as a teenager living through Nazi occupation in Vichy France, was a survivor through and through. Yet that didn’t lessen the physical toll and anguish. She endured an emergency eye surgery and countless subsequent transfers to facilities.
Yet a team of three female friends were always by her side — angels, really. They were my eyes and ears as I was living here in Fort Wayne and couldn’t uproot my life on a whim.
Two of the three women were there in the room with me and my grandmother as she faded in and out of consciousness. In retrospect, this was a blessing to both myself and her, no doubt. As someone highly sensitive, squeamish and generally uncomfortable around dying and death, I had decided I didn’t want to be in the room when my grandmother passed.
Well, life had different plans for me.
Her friend Ruth streamed a version of the “Ave Maria,” while her other friend Sharon rubbed her feet. I was there by her side watching for signs that the end might be near when Sharon remarked, “she looks rather pale.”
My grandmother, a devout Catholic, had peacefully and almost uneventfully transitioned to the next world during Schubert’s masterpiece. It was poetry really, especially when you consider she died on D-Day, too.
I felt violated and extremely uncomfortable in the moment. I excused myself from the room and burst into tears. How could she do this to me? It was like she knew my wishes yet decided to challenge me, even in her last minutes. (My grandmother was a severe woman at times.)
Now, nearly a year later, I’ve had time to process it. Maybe she didn’t want to say goodbye on my terms. And this was her way of hanging on to the 39 years of memories we created together. Or maybe it was my late father’s doing. Since he couldn’t be by her side when her time had come, it was on me to fulfill his only child duty.
Whatever the reason, I’m far less scared of death now, Maybe it was an invitation to live more fully. Smile with intention. Laugh a little harder.
After all, all we have is the here and now. As Mary Oliver famously said, “Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
Author: Lauren Caggiano
Lauren is a journalist, copywriter, and editor based in the Midwest. On a personal note, she’s a recent breast cancer survivor. She’s open to sharing perspectives over coffee (or Zoom).
Her website is www.lovewriteon.com.
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