I suppose it's one of life's few nearly universal truths. Even when you're inviting death, it may come later than you want. My grandma had been on dialysis for some time when she decided it was time to quit. She lay at home in her bed, waiting for her departure time, waking up occasionally from her semi-coma to announce, "I'm still here."
She awoke the second morning of my visit to say in mild frustration, "It's hard to die!"
This afternoon, though, at 12:20 local time, it came. I was so glad to have been able to visit and talk with her at a time when she could talk back. I'm glad to have held her hand and told her how grateful I am to her. I'm glad that she patted my hand when I got all teary and made me feel like it was going to be okay.
I'm grateful she met Weston. He saw her and grinned. She was tickled at his interaction with her and often commented, "he's not afraid of me!" He wasn't. Not even a little. He sat on her lap and smiled and cooed and chewed on her bed rails.
The second morning she requested only family be in her room. She was more tired. She listened while everyone in her room talked around her. She took some anti-nausea medication and slept for ten straight hours. We thought she might not wake up. To everyone's surprise (especially her own), she did, awaking at 1am with a chipper, "Good morning!"
I am missing her.