Happy Deepavali~

It was only a couple of years ago when my grandmother traveled with my family around Malaysia. Although she found walking tedious and would rather sit and watch the world go by, she was an independent lady who took pride in her appearance and cared for the welfare of her grandchildren.

And then she fell.

The smooth road of peace and uneventful days on which we were traveling on plummeted.

Rendered bedridden and unable to take in solid food, the cheerful lady who loved to chat became quiet and sullen. 'Food' was canned nutritive liquid fed through a tube to her stomach. Heavy medication for her diabetic condition gave her terrible mood swings. She would deliberately ignore her loved ones and at times, shout upsetting words and hurl objects at her loved ones. Glimpses of the joyful lady we loved were few and far between.

"I haven't eaten a single grain of rice since I came out of hospital!" she once screamed at my mother. Stunned, my mother quickly replied, "I'll go and cook." The anger within my grandmother subsided.

Several hours later, she asked crossly, "What's taking you so long? It's been hours since you said you'll cook the rice!" What's my poor mother to do? At that time, my grandmother's condition had deteriorated such that she was unable to take in even small sips of water. Holding back her tears, my mother could only say words of comfort and wait for the effects of medication to subside...

Grandmother's words hit us hard. Its delivery was telling of her bottled feelings of hurt and sadness. Where is the quality of life when one could not eat and is dependent on others for all her needs?

At least her condition was stable.

Grandmother had an operation to remove potentially gangrenous sections of intestine. It was a minor operation, the doctors assured us. There was a nagging fever for several weeks afterward but all else seemed fine. Grandmother managed a rare smile, delighting everyone who loved and cared for her.

We were preparing for her discharge when the phone rang. Over the phone a distant voice said, "Her oxygen levels dipped for several minutes. Her heart nearly stopped... We have only managed to bring her back."

The doctor failed to add that if the nurses were not alerted to the alarm of the monitor, help might not have been rendered in time. Grandmother could have quietly slipped away. Her latest misfortune left her in a comatose state, dependent on the oxygen tank for survival. "Talk to her," the doctors said. "That's the best way to help her recover."

But would she? Heavy medication to fight the nagging fevers was said to cause the plunge of heartbeat. Technological advances may prolong her life, but could she, in such frail condition, endure the onslaught of medications that was to follow? Grandmother was suffering. Were we being selfish in wanting doctors to help her recuperate to the condition she was in before the operation?

Grandmother shuttled repeatedly between wards and the intensive care unit. A nurse remarked, somewhat indelicately, no one who entered the intensive care unit the second time ever made it out alive.

The inevitable question was asked. The doctors would try their best but should a similar blow occur again, would we be ready to let her go? Could we bring ourselves to assertively say 'pull the plug' without feeling the strain of guilt?

Euthanasia - a word at once foreign yet uncomfortably near. As a concept, euthanasia sounds tolerable as it relieves a patient of prolonged suffering.

What if the patient happens to be your grandmother? The grandmother who had held your hand as she brought you to school; spent hours cooking and picking after you; gently nudge you in as you roll towards the sides of the bed; taught you to play card games; applied Vick for you when you complain of headaches? So many happy times - did it have to take so many misfortunes before I learn to fully appreciate the happy times with my grandmother?

Every time I visit grandmother, I see tears lining her eyes. The slow tickle of tears has of late developed into a relentless torrent of tears. Would grandmother have wished for a chance to be allowed to go peacefully? Given her previous resentment at the drop in the quality in life, would she willingly wish her life to be prolonged with such artificial methods?

I find that I am not ready to say the final goodbye. I find myself holding on to shreds of hope for a miracle. Hoping somehow, against all odds, grandmother will open her eyes - and become well enough to go home. I long so much to, once more, hear grandmother call my name as she tenderly caressed my hand.