The beauty in being there

"It's a beautiful experience," the chaplain said as he encouraged us to stay in our Grandpa Enis' hospice room where he lay, ready to pass from the Earth as he knew it. Cancer.

My grandmother held steady as long as she could, but eventually, exhaustion took its toll, and she headed back to their farm, accompanied by one of my uncles.

Enis was my grandmother's second husband, but I'd known him as my grandpa since I was maybe four.

It was just my sister and I in the room with him. Close to 11 p.m., the nurse would tell us we should move closer to his bed, as only minutes were left. I grabbed his ankle and elbow and told him we were there. With a sprawling stretch, he took his last breath.

"Jesus." I thought to myself. "I just saw someone die."

The visuals shook me. Though his passing was peaceful, it was still jarring to watch. As soon as we spoke with my grandmother, her stature softened, and she sighed with relief that someone else was with him when he passed. Oh my God, I helped see someone into the afterlife.

What a difficult blessing to have been given.

I spent a lot of time figuring out my grief. Sad he was gone but happy I watched it? That doesn't sound right. After some time, though, I learned my feelings were normal. I felt good about being able to be there on my grandma's behalf and to send Grandpa Enis off knowing people who cared about him were right there.

Not quite three years later, after a brief illness, my same lovely grandmother entered hospice. This was a much rougher go for me, as I had spent nearly every night of the three previous weeks in the hospital with her. Chatting with her, supporting her, waiting on her hand and foot so she didn't want for anything, it was my second job to make sure she was calm, care free and comfortable. I was happy to do it all.

Just about 8 p.m. on a muggy Fourth of July, a nurse freshened Grandma up and opened her door. I walked back in, and my aunt's husband thought my grandma was trying to talk. I moved to her bedside and watched as she mouthed something I couldn't make out. We locked eyes and I put my hand on her chest. I felt her heartbeat slip away. That was it.

Dang it, this one was hard. My dad and his siblings had stepped outside for a break. It didn't seem fair that I saw her go, and they missed the moment.

I struggled to see the beauty in this loss, as the grief was a little more overwhelming. Eighty-two seems like a nice, long life, but it also seems young, no? Call it denial, maybe. Either way, this one had teeth.

Still, I felt so grateful to have been the last person she laid eyes on before she left this world. The last touch she felt as her final few heartbeats tapped against my fingertips. A special moment between a grandmother and her first granddaughter.

What a difficult blessing to have been given.

My mother, Robin, and me as a toddler.

May 2024, my mother, who had prior been given a few years as her prognosis after being diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, began lamenting that she was within a year of death.

"Mom," I said, "No one can give you absolute certainty about that. You're doing just fine, and there's no reason to even go there."

Within two months she was in a nursing home, as she had become a fall risk. She had just turned 65, so handing her over to a long-term care facility seemed surreal, but neither my brother nor I could manage my mom's medical needs.

I visited as often as I could. I ran errands and brought deliveries of snacks and her beloved Coca-Cola. We would lose an easy four hours per visit just gabbing. She'd tell me stories of the past; I'd share my latest troubles. We were best girlfriends.

Early in December, she called me freaking out…she said she was ready for hospice, but that she didn't want to die. She barely made sense. The nursing home took her to the ER. A doctor called me from there and said her symptoms were worsening. A few days later, on a Thursday night, I went to my mom's room for her to sign power of attorney paperwork, as per her request, so I could begin a new role as an advocate for her health and comfort.

As I left, she shouted down the hall to drive safe. That night I enrolled her in St. Croix Hospice. I wanted her final months to be filled with all of the lovely therapies the organization offered — massage, music immersion, pain management, self-exploration, spiritual healing.

Her comfort was my only concern. I never wanted her to feel freaked out again.

The very next morning, they called to tell me there had been a condition change...which definitely couldn't be right because I'd just seen her 12 hours before.

My mother had not woken up that morning. A nurse whom my mom was particularly fond of was holding her hand and buried her face in my shoulder when I walked in.

We called everyone we could think of to come say their goodbyes. I called a chaplain in. My mom was quite spiritual and less religious, but I wanted a clergyman there to bless her.

After several hours of shallow breathing, she took a deep breath and actually woke up. She was lucid and very much aware of what was happening.

"Shit, I'm dying, aren't I?" she said as she took note of all the relatives in the room. We got 20 wonderful minutes of her awake and alert. She told us each goodbye and gave out hugs as tight as she could muster.

When she got to me, she just kept repeating "I love you so much, I love you so much." I said "I love you too," to which she answered "Are you sure?" Oh god — was she referring to the brief falling out we'd had in my twenties? Jesus Christ, that felt like being stabbed with a chainsaw. Did she really think I didn't love her? Didn't she know who she was to me? "Yes, I'm sure. I love you so much too." I squeezed her hand. Her sharp thumbnail left a mark above my thumb as she squeezed back.

Best 20 minutes I could ask for.

Soon after, she fell back to sleep. At 8:53 p.m., my best friend noticed my mom's face go pale. Her breathing swallowed even more. My sister and I each grabbed one of her hands. At 8:55 p.m., she drifted away. Just like that.

My whole life up to that point flashed before my eyes, a flashback I always thought would be saved for my own death. Birthdays, shopping trips, Christmases, arguments...each flash more painful than the next.

I was in no way prepared for that. How could she have just been here one second and gone the next? I sobbed and sobbed. It took me days to realize what I'd actually gone through. She was there for my first moment on earth, and I was there for her last. "It's a beautiful experience," the old chaplain's words rang through my head.

But, my God, did this one hurt. But, my God, how I knew I wouldn't have missed that last moment for the world.

What a difficult blessing to have been given.

Lisa Grouette is a proud member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative, a group of Iowa writers, authors, and content producers. If you enjoy hearing from Iowa voices, please consider helping to broaden their reach with a paid subscription. Your support goes a long way.