Grandma.

Namastè.

This morning I'm a wreck.

I visited my grandma this afternoon. Stayed over into the night, actually. Baby Namastè turned 15 months old today, too.

This wasn't the average visit.

You see, my grandma is imminent.

She is dying.

Her body has begun shutting down. She is mostly no responsive, save a few audible breaths and responses to temperature changes in the room.

I never knew just how much of me was tied to her until this moment. I sit here unable to sleep, because I fear sleep right now. Sleep means I won't be at the ready. Sleep means I'll potentially be unreachable should they call.

Sleep means I have to wake up to this same nightmare in the morning. It's only temporary respite.

Awake is not necessarily much better.

I'm left to think.

What if???

But mostly I am remembering.

Grandma taught me everything I know. Long before my Becks and Sammo, my bestie was Grandma. She taught me to grow roses. To be gentle yet firm. To be a gracious hostess. To always serve real, actual cornbread.

I spent a huge chunk of my childhood with her, shelling peas. I especially remember the value she placed on reading.

Grandma is legally blind. I remember she would get her Sunday school books in printed form, and then she and I would work as a tandem to get them transcribed to Braille. I'd read the pages, spelling all the words I couldn't yet pronounce. We always had a dictionary, a Bible dictionary, and an up-to-date concordance on hand.

When we weren't doing her lessons, she was singing. We always had music. She has an incredible voice. High and sweet. Just a hint of the melancholy that makes all the best singers resonate.

I'm hard-pressed to find one word to adequately describe her, or even ten words.

She's been my mother. My advisor. My counselor. Motivator. Friend. Partner in crime. Teacher. Cheerleader. Disciplinarian. Encouragement. Provider.

As I think of what's next for her, I can't help but fear what's next for me.

I don't want her to suffer. Not one bit. But her freedom  means my pain.

I'd feel it a thousand times over for her.

I haven't decided how I'll deal. I feel so lost. This isn't the first time we've dealt with someone passing, but it's hitting me the hardest of any loss I'll ever take.

I know she is suffering, and she's not happy. She doesn't have a lot of life right now. She is literally only breathing. She cannot respond to us, she does not move.

Before she fell this ill, she requested we not take heroic measures. She didn't want tubes or wires. She did not want us to mechanically prolong the natural process of her passing.

I was mad at first. How dare they sign a DNR?! Just let her die?!

No.

I understand now.

Not "let her die," but let her live. She did not want to be kept here, to eat by tube and breathe by machine. She never wanted to be bedridden, unable to have her independence.

My grandma is cut from a different cloth. She's been legally blind for as long as I can remember, but she was strong. So strong, so graceful.

She worked for many years as a seamstress. She built her home from the ground up, never taking a handout and never desiring pity. She raised her 5 children, and many others, as well as (or better than) any sighted parent. She shopped, cooked, and tended to her household independently.

Most importantly, perhaps more so now, she lived with dignity.

People would, at first glance, be inclined to protect her or want to coddle her. She's not very big. She's soft-spoken.

But she is strong and capable.

Now we must draw on her amazing spirit as we stand with her in these last moments.