Down the Rabbit Hole

First, I fucking hate blogger. H.A.T.E. HATE. Despise even.

Blogger hungry. Eat loooooooooong post. Chomp chomp chomp.

*spits out post that took me 40 minutes to type out in garbled mess*

Burrrrrrrrrrp.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming - I hope.
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How do you reconcile breaking a promise to someone - one you have sworn to with your own life - with the fact that if you truly loved that person, you would have no choice but to break it?

When my Papaw died when I was 12, Granny was petrified of being alone. I lived with her in her little house on May Lane until I was 16 and left for college. For the first time in over fifty years, she was completely and utterly alone - aside from the dog. As much as she feared being alone, the fear of living in a nursing home at some point in the future petrified her. She begged me to promise that I would never force upon her the indignity of living anywhere other than under the roof of the humble home that she owned.

Granny is an incredibly strong woman. She's had over eight documented heart attacks (many more mild ones we're pretty sure of, she carries her nitroglycerin patches and pills religiously), and at least three strokes. She's outlived five siblings, three husbands, one child, and nearly every friend she's ever really had.

She loves to argue, which makes living with her - explosive at best. She knows just what buttons to push, how to make you fold - to give in, to surrender to her. Her rogue, redheaded irish temper could make Russell Crowe look like the posterchild of peaceful existence. We used to tease her that she was simply too mean to die.

Her love is equally as fierce. I can't even begin to tell you how many of my ex-boyfriends have gone back to visit her over the years, long after our own relationships ceased. Old friends in high school, that I haven't seen for nearly a decade still visit from time to time - their kids in tow to meet their "other" Granny. In fact, most people under a certain age only know her as Granny. Her given name, Mary Etta - sound foreign, rolling off my tongue awkwardly. The bank even cashes checks she signs with simply "Granny." Even her doctors call her Granny.

A few years ago after another stroke, it became apparent that she was becoming increasingly forgetful. She would forget to let the dog out to go to the bathroom, she would forget to eat - or to turn off the gas stove when she'd cooked, or to take one of the myriad of her pills. A decision was reached by the family that she could no longer really safely live alone. My mother was working on straightening out her own life, and it seemed to be mutually beneficial for them to move in together.

So, Mom moved into a back bedroom. She worked at first, leaving Granny alone during the day - and coming home to cook and clean for her at night. She gave up living alone to live in a back bedroom, caring for a cantankerous old woman who not only didn't appreciate her - but resented that she was there.

Fiercely independent, Granny lost her privacy - and was forced to share her home with someone else after years of living alone. But truth be told, she slept better at night. She ate regularly, and she didn't miss pills anymore.

It was incredibly difficult for both of them, but it seemed that it was the only way.

After her last stroke, we noticed things just weren't "right." She'd started forgetting little things again, like the difference between "our" and "are" when she was writing letters. Granted the majority of my childhood, I was convinced my name was "Bettye-Tonya-April" (my grandmother's, mother's and my name respectively - run together quickly with a deep Texas drawl). But after the last stroke, we noticed that she was getting confused. She was no longer calling me Tonya because she was just absentminded, she thought I was my mom.

About a month ago, I got a bizarre letter from her in the mail - addressed to "Her Loved Ones" that talked about me. It said that I was having trouble with my marriage (we're definitely not), I had quit school (I graduated law school long ago), had moved over the Thanksgiving without telling her (definitely not true) and I hadn't seen her in over three years (we had just been up at Thanksgiving). I panicked when I read it, and called her immediately. She was chipper, and completely lucid when I talked to her. I finally summoned the courage to ask her about the letter, and she got angry - said she had never written such nonsensical drivel, and why would I say something so hurtful? Yet, there I was, holding stationery that I had bought her, with her distinctive handwriting scrawled across the page.

Last night, I called Mom to check on them - and I knew within seconds that it had gotten much - much worse. Mom said that Granny often forgets who my mom is, instead calling her Faye, her sister that died over 40 years ago. She usually refers to my uncle at "Howard" - her husband's name - and he died in '92. She tries to use the remote control to turn on the stove, or the water in the bathroom. She can no longer shower alone, because she forgets to turn on the cold water, and will scald herself. If not carefully watched, she'll walk up the street - in her gown and no coat. If you ask her where she's going, she'll tell you she doesn't know. And she doesn't. She has no bloomin' idea where she's going or why.

She's become fiercely combative, trading her verbal barbs for physical ones. Granted, she's incredibly frail - and she's not actually inflicting pain - but she's taken to hitting my mother randomly - often with no reason or provocation. She doesn't eat, she stays up all night, and sleeps during the day. She's becoming increasingly paranoid, convinced that people are after her. She threatens to take off in her car, and just drive - and trust me, Granny was never a good driver to begin with.

She hides her pills, then takes them randomly. She talks to the walls. She refuses to bathe, and must be physically forced to shower. Eating is a battle. My mom said it's like living with a two-year old all over again, but one trapped in a woman's body.

She doesn't remember her own pets, and panics when the dog comes in the bedroom to sleep with her, like it has every night for the last five years.

In a tearful apology, mom whispered last night that she was close to a breakdown. "I don't know how to handle this", she sobbed, "I don't have the proper training to take care of her, and I feel like I'm letting everyone down."

Everyone in the family knows, to some degree about her illness. We don't know exactly what it is that's caused it. She's refusing to go to a neurologist, because she's afraid they're going to put her in a home.

My family is in disarray. I'm actually her oldest great-grandchild. Which means, that yes - she has three children, six grandchildren, and five other great-grandchildren who could be shouldering the responsibility. Instead, her care has been relegated to my mother, her oldest grandchild, and the decision making to me. But as I lived with her during my teenage years, she and I have a deep bond. I am to share equally in her meager estate with her three grown children. They don't know what to do, so the decision has come to me - the one who knows her in some ways better than all of them. The one with the most education, and thus the most responsibility.

I cried last night softly onto Michael's chest, and he stroked my hair, and said that perhaps this is what's best. It's not fair to my mother to continue this way. It's not safe for Granny to be alone anymore. She's a danger to herself, and to others. My mother can't work because if she leaves the house for even five minutes - Granny freaks out and starts calling the police, convinced that my mother is dead in a ditch.

Her mind is forsaking her. But her body is too. Her arms and legs jerk wildly, flailing out at people around her.

The one thing that she feared worse than death, the one thing that she begged me not to do - I have no choice but to do. I will be breaking my promise to her.

I feel as if I am an executioner, signing her death warrant.

My heart is utterly breaking.