in which sleep is not a metaphor for death

Grandma has been sleeping more and more. Now she is sleeping about 22+ hours a day?

No one in the family had seen her awake in a few days, but the nurses kept claiming that she was awake very early in the morning and would eat a little breakfast. So, Pap Pap and company arranged for a *very* early morning visit.

I was told that Grandma woke up a little bit, and was able to eat a little bit of the food she was given. She was responsive: she would laugh when someone said something funny and she would stick her tongue out when someone asked her to, but she didn't have anything to say. Then, she was given her pain medication again, and she feel asleep once more.

Pap Pap said that he would much rather see her sleeping all the time than to see her suffer. If that is how he wants things, that is totally fine with me.

I don't think I'll be going back to see her again. We said our goodbyes on Sunday, and I don't want to expose Connor and Lex any further. I know she is resting, and I would hate to see Connor or Lex get MERSA (or E. coli, or Staph, all of which she has) from visiting.

That's my decision, and I'm fine with it.

So now she is sleeping, and we are waiting.

And while we are waiting, I thought to myself this morning, "I can't believe she survived breast cancer and fought so hard just to die of old age." But, then I thought to myself, "I'm glad she fought to hard and survived breast cancer so that she could die of old age."

And I'm fine with that, too.