Cigarettes and Alcohol

My grandfather is dying, as grandfathers tend to do. He has been dying for some time, years in fact. He quit smoking at 50, but after 36 years of inhaling tobacco smoke emphysema had already taken hold. Now, at 88 he has malignant tumours in his bladder, shoulder, chest and lungs.
He is currently recovering (unexpectedly) from pneumonia. He is bed ridden, unable to walk or even stand unaided and has developed many pressure sores on his back and bottom. He is totally incontinent and can't feed himself. He is almost deaf. He has had at least 2 strokes. Yet he lives. He hangs on. Is it grit, determination, constitution or simply that his wife won't give him permission to die?
What is it that keeps someone going when their bodies are broken and damaged beyond what seems possible? The medicos are in awe of his perseverance, his death has been predicted by them several times over the past 12 months. Yet against all odds, he lives.
My mother, sister and I lived with my grandparents when I was a child, my sister an infant. My grandfather was my only male role model for my formative years. He was a farmer, all brawn and work ethic. My grandmother was the brain, that was obvious. My grandfather is no doubt responsible for my staunch feminism – I was told he was the head of the household, but even as a small child it was clear to me that he wasn't. He was compliant, he did as he was told. He still does. Every night my grandmother leaves the hospital saying "goodnight, see you tomorrow" and he hangs on. She tells him to stay and he does.
My grandparents' marriage was not an easy one. They had to get married, she was pregnant. They have never celebrated a wedding anniversary (not even their 60th) in case somebody did the math and worked out their oldest child (my mother) was born only a few months after their wedding. Their life was made difficult by his catholacism and alcoholism. Too many children, not enough money – an old story. A life filled with many arguments, much resentment. But finally a bond that neither has the strength to break. Love? Habit? Fear? Guilt? Only they know the ingredients that hold them together (maybe).
I look at my own husband. A smoker for 32 years. Is what my grandmother deals with now what lies in my future? If so, do I have the strength, devotion and depth of love to deal with a husband wracked by lung disease? I don't know. As an asthmatic I know first hand the ordeal and pain of lungs that refuse to work. To struggle for breath is terrifying. It's not a state I would ever wish on anybody. I hope that if the time comes I have the strength, devotion and depth of love to say to him "Goodnight and goodbye, my love. Don't wake up tomorrow".


Since writing this, my grandfather has been sent home for his final days. He is apparently calm and peaceful, which is a great comfort to me as he was scared and confused in hospital.
And now we wait…..