Family, religion, death, atheism.

I was but four years old when I began doubting my parent's religion, Christianity. I had been having fun hiding in the typing paper cupboard in the church secretary's office and neither she nor my mother could find me. It was a tight squeeze to get onto that shelf with the paper reams and colored construction paper. I could hear them becoming frustrated, walking up and down the hall to the steps then down into the basement and calling out. Admittedly, once my mom's voice took on a scared note, I popped out of the cabinet, laughing, but I could clearly see that they were quite unhappy with me. I thought mom would be glad to find me however Karen, the secretary, then told me that I was naughty for having hidden, and that God knew what I had done and that he can always see everything that I do and that I cannot hide from him. I responded, "But I was in the dark so he wouldn't be able to see me." Karen said, "No you cannot hide anywhere from Him because he can see you even in the dark." My mom didn't say anything at all. I remember frowning at her response and at that moment there was a first seed of recognition that something seemed off.

Throughout my youth I attended services because my parents made me, as well as vacation bible school, Sunday school, confirmation, youth group meetings, and so on. During my first 18 years I spent a lot of time trying to please my parents. But once I turned 18, I never set my foot back into the sanctuary, as they call it. I was upset by the hypocrisy, the hidden racism, the in-fighting and power struggles. The one minister that really resonated with the youth in my church was run off for reasons unbeknownst to any of us. Years later I came to understand that my cousin Cheryl's family had something to do with it. There were never satisfactory answers to my questions regarding discoveries of science and how it didn't mesh with the creation story. Resurrections and virgin births were silly stories by primitive tribes in my view but I also couldn't talk about this to anyone. I kept it inside. And while I had my doubts, I clung to the thought of heaven and a God out there, somehow. I was mocked by a boyfriend for this so I thought about it some more, read some other books on various religions, and eventually I decided he was probably right. It was painful to let go of the hope that I'd see my dead grandparents. I wanted to see my cousin Theresa again most of all. When she died in that car accident it changed me in many ways and I struggled a lot from 15 years on. I wanted to make up for her loss, and instead I lost myself trying to be her in some ways. Anyway, I digress.

Once I got a PC and dial-up, c 1998, I spent many hours hunched over my keyboard, reading posts over at iidb.org. Internet Infidels Discussion Board. I read a lot and posted hardly ever, mostly focused on debates concerning science, morality, and separation of church and state. My main concern was trying to feel okay about not being the same as my family, and being independent of them and not allowing them to coerce me to do religious things that I felt were impinging on my own personal freedom. Once, at Thanksgiving, a couple of months after I told my mom that I didn't believe in revealed religions anymore, including Christianity, she wanted us all to have a hand-holding singing prayer at the dinner table in order to force my involvement. She was pointedly looking at me when she said what she wanted for the prayer. It was not enough for her that I just sit respectfully and let them do their prayer. She was always monitoring me, checking to see if I was praying. My nephew Danny, brother-in-law Jim, and I always had our eyes open. We would smile at each other across the table during prayers and I'm certain that irked her. That Thanksgiving was the first time I ever stood up to her, and I outright refused to join in their singing prayer. I said to her, "Why aren't you happy enough that I just sit here quietly, why do you have to try to force me into praying? Focus on your prayers and quit forcing your beliefs onto me, I'm tired of it." There was a bit of a rift for a while, but after all these years, close to 20 now, things are better. She has said that she worries about me. She told me that she views hell as "separation from God," not a place of torment. She still feels inclined to witness her Christianity to all who will listen. I've since learned to avoid a topic if it's one which she could use to preach religious beliefs.

In 2014, a few days before Thanksgiving my maternal grandmother was in the hospital, for the last time, with congestive heart failure and pneumonia. They are constant companions, these two medical conditions, as they often walk hand in hand. They surely make for a lot of suffering. So I stopped in to see Grandma as soon as I heard this, to see her but also to make sure that grandma was being cared for properly, that her shortness of breath was being treated along with the underlying disease states.

What I found was enough to make me absolutely furious. Every ounce of the energy left in her 92 year old body was being spent just trying to breath with water-logged lungs. The secretions were gurgling in her airway. She tried to cough but couldn't cough anything out and was choking on the sputum coming from her lungs. A person normally breathes between 12 to 20 times per minute. She was at 38. She was physically drained, having been like this for the better part of a day. Her blue eyes were wide open, fearful, as she choked. I said, "Grandma, hang on, I'm going to get you some help to make you feel better, I promise." She nodded understanding. It was hard to control my emotions, to be strong, to not panic at her state even though I'm trained as an RRT. I knew she was in imminent danger of coding on us. I asked the CNA to have the RN to come in to the room. I asked permission from mom, my grandma's POA, to know BP's (180/100), oxygen saturations (78% on 2 LPM of oxygen via nasal cannula, >90% is usually the minimum hospital standard), last Lasix given (none that day, and grandma always took "water pills" which is the home medication equivalent of the IV med Lasix.). Chest ray results from ER upon admission? CHF and pneumonia. Any Lasix given in the ER? No. I was told the plan was to keep her comfortable, and I asked without mincing words, "Does she look comfortable to you? And if she is comfort measures, then why are there antibiotics hung on the IV pole? It's fine to be comfort measures but then there needs to be more morphine, some Ativan, and discontinue the antibiotics." The RN agreed with me. I requested more oxygen, oral and possibly nasotracheal suctioning, morphine and Ativan. Another maddening part to me was that my mom assumed that because grandma's nurse was from her church congregation, that grandma was getting the best possible care.

So, I left after the RN had returned to the room with IV Lasix, reporting that the on-call hospitalist has placed the appropriate orders to get grandma more comfortable. My son was visibly upset seeing his great grandma like that and he wanted to leave. Mom stayed. Mom asked if she should have her sister come from Arizona, and I said yes, I believe so. My sister was also contacted to come home from Montana. The next morning I returned and grandma was doing better, able to speak, breathing comfortably but very very tired. She did not remember my visit the night before. Sometimes that happens, the brain shuts down to a certain extent during times of duress. It was the day before Thanksgiving. I heard her primary care provider come in to the room and say, "Mildred, you pulled through the night, I didn't think you'd make it." WOW.

On Thanksgiving day, I went early. She was sitting upright, completely cognizant and pleasant to converse with. We talked about who had visited, and what was going on for Thanksgiving. I told her about how I had accidentally put ground mustard instead of ground ginger into the pumpkin bars that I had baked for Thanksgiving. I asked, "Do you think they will taste okay? She smiled and chuckled and patted my hand then squeezed it and said, yes they will be fine. Grandma and I connected over making food, especially cookies, bars, and other sweets. She was an amazing cook and baker. I asked her what she wanted to eat for thanksgiving dinner. She decided on potatoes and gravy, a little ham. Well, she was going to be comfort measures so why not? Salt be damned.

But it was indeed comfort measures that ensued. Secretions can be minimized and breathing can be less laborious with the proper medications. On the day after Thanksgiving, there was a change in her condition again. I noticed one pupil had dilated, likely she had had a stroke, I noticed the change in her mentation immediately, too. I left the room while the nursing were performing personal cares on Grandma and went to the lounge, where I saw one of my aunts. She asked how grandma was doing that day and I said, "Not as good, I don't think she will pull through. I wish I could do more," and it was then that I choked up. My aunt and I hugged. I left the hospital and didn't return.

I decided to stay home the morning Grandma died because I knew there would be a lot of religious stuff going on at her bedside. Grandma was devout and she absolutely would have wanted it if she were able to express her desires. I understand that mom along with her sisters and brother prayed and sang childhood songs as grandma died. My older sister, who is the religious one, was there too. I had asked her to make sure that grandma's breathing was smooth and to bother the nurses as often as needed. I was comforted by knowing she was there during my absence. About 10 am my sister called from the hospital to report that Grandma had peacefully faded away from this life.

At her funeral, my aunts and uncles thanked me for making sure grandma had been comfortable. They marveled that she had lasted long enough to see every last grand kid -- the whole clan had come home to pay respects to our matriarch. I was thankful to be able to help and in a way that was true to myself and allowed space for their beliefs. My mom still mentions it from time to time, and tells me how much it means to her that I was around to help grandma. When she said that to me, I felt like I was part of the family again.

My grandma and grandpa had been farmers. They had a 60 acre farm and milked cows by hand. They were good neighbors and anchors in their community. Somehow they had saved enough money over the years to be able to give money to us all and also donate to various organizations. With my inheritance from them I bought a badly-needed new stove. I felt it was the most fitting way to spend it, a way to follow in my grandma's footsteps. After all, I am the official noodle maker of the family now that grandma is gone. In my family, that's a critical role.


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