"The time has come," the Walrus said,

"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."


The house is quiet right now, as it's a little past midnight.  Every now and then I can hear my grandmother cough.  It sounds wet and too strong for her frail body.  A few moments ago I went in to check on her.  She was awake and scratching her arms.  I had given her some medicine at 10pm that was supposed to help her sleep, to ease the itching and calm her mind.  Tonight it didn't seem like it had worked.  


I texted my aunt to see what I should do.  Do I give her the benadryl?  Has it been long enough?  Will it interfere with the other stuff I gave her?  I ended up giving her the little pill, which in itself can be worrisome.  Will she be able to swallow it?  Am I giving her too much water at once?  


My aunt also said that I should lotion her arms and back and then add baby powder.  (The "Friends" episode with Ross and his leather pants came to mind.)  And I surprised myself.  I didn't cringe as I thought I would.  Her skin was soft, paper thin and...familiar.  


Isn't that horrendous?  That I thought that I would have to steel myself for this task?  What kind of granddaughter am I?  


But we got through it.  And it was okay, and I could totally do it again.  Seriously.  I'm not as pathetic as I sound.


Now, I wait for the medicine to take effect.  I hope that she'll be able to fall asleep soon, and that her itching will stop.  I still hear her coughing...


This morning she told my aunts about all the little children who were sleeping around her bed last night.  She wanted to cover them with blankets, but she was also annoyed because they were so "yakamashi" noisy.  She was also not pleased that one of the little girls got into bed with her.  Hmmmm...


While she was in the hospital she was also visited by a Mr. Park.  A man who was telling her that it was time to go.  My aunt could hear her arguing with him, her telling him to leave her alone so that she could sleep.  Was she dreaming?  But when my aunt asked her who she was talking to, she replied "that stupid man".  Obviously she was lucid enough to talk to both Mr. Park and my aunt.      


Japanese people believe that when you are about to die your ancestors come to retrieve you.  It's comforting in a sense.  Knowing that your loved one will not be alone.  


Rebeca took her sister and niece to the airport tonight.  Isa and Maya went along for the ride.  As I sat in the quiet I kept thinking of two lines.  "Cast me gently into morning." by Sarah MacLachlan and "Do not go gentle into that good night." by Dylan Thomas.  I want for her, the first.  To be calm and peaceful and dignified.  To not fight the dying of the light, but rather embrace her next journey.  


Am I heartless?  


I'm not feeling anxious about any of my time with my grandmother.  I don't feel like I'm supposed to fight for her survival.  I believe that I'm supposed to make her comfortable and help her to know that she is surrounded by love. 


I don't think my aunts are there yet.  And I feel like a monster, thinking these thoughts.