"Lord, you don't have to move my mountain, but give me the strength to climb." (Please.)
Friday, Aug. 30, 2019 - 10:39 p.m.
My great-aunt had another seizure a few hours after that last post. It was just as scary but at least I had confidence she wasn't going to die in front of me when it was over.
My brain is already trying to erase the experience. I've noticed it does that with trauma. It's like I can remember the episode from a high-level if I really think about it. But even then, feels like it happened long ago. I can't remember every moment. I just clearly remember the terror in her eyes and face, the fear that she was about to die (although vague), and the way the staff moved about like this was normal because for them, it's part of a job.
Back to my great-aunt now: she is septic and they don't know if it went to her brain because they tried to do a spinal tap but couldn't because she doesn't have enough fluid in her spine to test. She has been pretty out of it with moments of lucidity.
On Tuesday night, as I was leaving her hospital room, I told her, "I love you." She said, "I love you too. You know I really love you." Just before she had the first seizure, with my mom in the room, I told her, "We love you." She responded, "I love ya'll too."
If she doesn't come back from this, I'm grateful those will be the words we have to remember her.
I morbidly realized that my mom and I have been the recipients of a few of our family members' last spoken words.
We are starting to think of ourselves as the death angels. It's not funny. At all. But we kinda giggle about it sometimes.