Until recently, I've avoided being near death rather nimbly.
At 99, my maternal grandmother, so skinny that all the blankets were too heavy for her form lost interest in food and drink, common in the dying according to hospice and a puzzling concept for the family. She scolded us to leave rather than watch her die. Certainly not how she wanted to be remembered as we stood around, grasping onto her last breaths. My paternal grandmother, at the young age of 93, took a turn for the worse while we were together on a family vacation. That she was rambling somewhat oddly about things was not unusual. She did not always have the same sense of reality as the rest of us, after all. However, When she lay down and promptly got up because she couldn't breathe, we realized that perhaps we missed a crucial detail. Despite our poor attention, we did get her to the ER in time for her to give us a few more memories. Now I know what dying can look like. It is exactly the same and very different than I assumed.
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