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Crochet. Learn.

Some of my earliest memories of my Gramma are of her telling everyone who would listen that she never wanted to die and to make sure everyone kept her going by whatever means necessary.

It seems the request was honored in too many ways. Not many of the people she thought would be making the decision are still around. She's buried Papa, her eldest daughter, all but one of her siblings & their spouses, and most of her friends. She'll be 93 on August 1st.

She was doing so well until last summer. The breast cancer was back after 17 years. She was as fiesty as ever - "I'll fight it for 17 more years" . She doesn't know but I prayed that she'd die peacefully so she wouldn't have to live through a masectomy. How would she survive that?We're busty women afterall. She did quite well actually. She is old depression era hearty stock - a real survivor. I also prayed she'd die when Auntie Ei died. Surely she'd never make it through that funeral. But she did. It made her more frail though. Her light went out a bit right then.

And here we are. Battles over bed sores. What is right? Who is right? Fights. Bickering. Cursing. Threats. Lift chairs. Pain patches. Motorized chair?

It seems unfair that shingles, a virus, would strip her of her dignity and health. The cancer didn't.

I have a lump in my throat & when the phone has mom's ring, I steady myself. Let it be peaceful & soon is my only wish. Let it be over. A nursing home will kill her. The decision is looming.

I never learned to crochet. I had time I guess. It never seemed like it but now I know that I never will, how could I possibly let someone else teach me???

Frank won't listen to me say that she's not doing well. It seems I've been saying that for the last 10 years. Well, I think it's true now.


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