Free Witches & Werewolves: A Sacred Oath by Bella Raven Page B

He would shake and jerk, wincing and moaning with discomfort during the procedure. Just watching made me feel like gagging. I imagined what that tube must feel like, shoved past the uvula, past the tonsils, down into the upper respiratory tract. I had never seen him in such distress in all of my life. He was always larger than life, a man’s man, never afraid of anything. He always had a grin and a glimmer in his eye—but not today.  
    Despite the dire prophecy of the attending physician, my grandfather improved over the next several days. So much so, that his trademark smile and sparkle in his eye came back—but only for a day. But in that day, I held his hand and told him that I loved him. He replied, “I love you too.”  
    It was the last thing he ever said to me.
    The next day was a steep decline. The doctors said that the pneumonia was likely due to aspiration. He had lost the ability to swallow, and unfortunately, that ability wasn’t coming back. Dysphagia, as they called it. Anything he ate or drank was spilling down his windpipe, breeding infection in his lungs. He had been on IV fluids since he was admitted. His only source of nutrition was coming from a nasal cannula, which they used to inject a feeding solution directly into his stomach.  
    Despite this, he was still aspirating into his lungs. It seems gramps had pretty advanced dementia—more advanced than anyone realized. It had progressed past the point of merely repeating conversations. His brain wasn’t only forgetting memory details, it was forgetting how to tell the body to function. His swallowing wasn’t improving. Putting in a permanent feeding tube would likely still result in aspiration. He would face increased infection concerns. Given all of these factors, the doctor suggested we consider hospice.  
    Hospice is where they send people to die. The singular goal is to make the patient’s passing as comfortable as possible. It created a very strange feeling among all of us—it was no longer a case of if , but when my grandfather would die.  
    I was too young to process all of this at the time. But now, watching this replay in my mind, I am aware of so many details that I had either forgotten, or just couldn’t comprehend. I remember staying in the intermediate care unit of the hospital almost twenty four hours a day. Jake hadn’t returned to the hospital since the day grandpa was first admitted. I can see now how much this bothered my father. Some people just don’t do hospitals well, and Jake is one of those people.  
    Watching the slow, steady decline of someone you love is excruciating. Every moment is precious. Once in hospice, my grandfather was only semi-conscious for another day or so. From then on, he mostly slept, with the assistance of some heavy duty comfort medication. Jake showed up to the hospice three times—each time drunk. Like, really drunk. Obnoxious, loud, and disrespectful drunk. This infuriated my father. And even though my grandfather wasn’t really conscious anymore, he seemed to react to what was going on the room with moans and groans—Jake’s behavior was upsetting him. This enraged my dad even further.  
    The hospice nurses said that the hearing is the last thing to go. The patient might seem out of it, and non-responsive, but they can hear everything you say. I told him stories of my favorite moments with him, and how we would see each other again in Heaven.  
    The nurses made regular checks and administered the medications on schedule. Each one had such a high degree of respect and compassion for their patients. It takes a special kind of person to care for the dying—knowing that each new patient is going to pass, and that all you can do is ease their transition.  
    Nobody ever talks about death in hospice. They always say transition . And they all say that the patient controls the exact moment when they will transition. At this stage, some last for days, and some for weeks. If they want you in