The passing of my grandmother…
…as related by my aunt, Vera Hahn:
Grandma, at the age of 98, had recently moved in to a senior living facility and by all accounts was enjoying it thoroughly. She played 42 and Bingo (I assume other residents had no chance during those 42 games, and Grandma apparently scored all kinds of snacks during Bingo) and roamed the hallways, commenting to visitors that she was one of the few not consigned to a scooter to make her way around the home. No real surprise there – Grandma was riding her stationary bike for a couple miles each morning and evening up until the day she died.
Saturday night Grandma apparently did not sleep well, and Sunday morning she decided not to go to church because she felt tired, and believing she was coming down with the flu, decided to nap. Trinity Shores (the home) called Vera that morning to let her know, and, after church, Vera went to check up on her.
Grandma complained about some indigestion and weakness, and Vera asked her if she wanted to be taken to the emergency room (if it was the flu, she needed to go). Grandma agreed, and, when Vera asked her if she wanted a wheelchair, Grandma refused, saying she could walk herself. So Vera waited (and waited) for Grandma to make it from the back of the complex to the front doors.
Arriving at the hospital, Grandma walked herself in but at some point the doctors told her she would have to be taken in a wheelchair. The tests began that afternoon, and they discovered a bladder infection (which could have been the culprit) but they also discovered that her blood pressure was very low. This led to more tests, including a CT scan. Grandma patiently agreed to each test in turn. While she waited they took her blood pressure again – it was even lower than before. The CT scan revealed a grade 5 aortic aneurysm, and the doctors decided another one with contrast was needed. The results were not good. In fact, the doctors explained that on the scale they used to evaluate the results, a “5” was considered critical. Grandma was at a “6” meaning that her aorta was leaking.
The doctor would later would tell Vera that the “indigestion” she had complained about had actually been a heart attack.
The only option the doctors had was to fly her to a hospital with a vascular surgeon, though because of her age it was difficult to find one willing to operate. Eventually the decision was made to fly her to St. Luke’s in Houston, and the call was made to a medivac helicopter from Victoria. While they waited, Grandma laid down and every so often asked about the helicopter. My cousin Bobby sat with her and gave her a countdown until its arrival.
But when the helicopter touched down there in Port Lavaca, a dove flew into the rotor. Policy stated that the helicopter had to be grounded until a mechanic could inspect it (even though the pilot told Bobby that everything was fine – policy was policy). So they had to wait for a second helicopter to arrive from Rosenberg.
Grandma would ask quietly from time to time about when the helicopter would arrive, but there wasn’t enough time. She passed away before the second one arrived, peacefully, with Vera, her oldest child, holding her hand.
My grandmother had a wonderfully full life, and left this world peacefully and without pain. Vera pointed out during Grandma’s funeral that the dove was God’s doing – that God was calling her home, thus keeping her from further discomfort and the uncertainty of the surgery. It might be easy for some to dismiss that as mere coincidence, as solely a rationalizing coping mechanism. You who are reading this may and will believe what you wish.
I believe it to be true.