This month brought the *somewhat* unexpected death of our family matriarch, my grandmother. Although I have not lived anywhere near her for my entire adult life, I have always felt close to her emotionally, and have been regular in my phone calls, cards, and photos. I was even regular in my visits up until the birth of my son in 2000--nothing puts a damper on the availability of time and finances to travel like a child. He did accompany me to the East for one planned and one unplanned visit. The unplanned trip was for my grandfather's funeral, two weeks before the dates on our pre-bought tickets. From that March to this, I have found my way to many places; Connecticut hasn't been one of them.

My guilt had been mounting higher and higher, especially after recent talks with my grandmother, hearing about her various bouts of flu and broken bones. You couldn't keep her down, you see, and she'd fallen several times while out on her own, without telling anyone about the incidents until she was needing bones set and such.

Over Christmas, I firmly decided that I would be packing up myself and my son and making the trek over spring break. One burden of being a single mother + full-time student is needing to rely almost solely on student loans to survive day-to-day, so forking out the $700 for plane travel for two is difficult; I knew, however, that if she died and I hadn't gone to see her, my previous guilt wouldn't hold a candle to how I'd feel.

A week before I was to leave, my mother's lovely picture showed up on my ringing cellphone. My heart sank in reaction to my uncanny ability to sense when things have gone awry. It turned out that my grandmother had gotten up to use the ladies room in the middle of the night and, due to dehydration brought on by her most recent flu, got dizzy and fell. A series of x-rays revealed a fracture in her pelvis which hurts like hell no matter your age. After several days on a ton of pain medications, she developed double pneumonia; they moved her to the ICU.

I should interject here that I had another agenda regarding this trip. I have an idea for a writing project for those eagerly anticipated post-academic days, which would have involved interviewing my grandmother. It was becoming clear to me at this point that any possibility of that interview were quickly winking out.

By the time my son and I arrived on the scene Easter morning, my beloved grandmother was spending most of her hours unconscious. She was so excited to see her only great-grandchild; now, with her residence in intensive care, I was unable to make that happen for her; his 7-year-old presence was not welcomed to that wing of the hospital. Instead, he went on a fishing adventure with my cousin's boyfriend while my cousin and I made the trip to the ICU.

We got quiet and nervous as we entered the antique New England hospital. Retreating to a place of childhood fear, we glanced nervously around, trying to remember that we were, after all, grownups. Neither of us knew how to handle this situation. The adult, "rational" side finally won out; after stalling with trips to the restroom and drinking fountain, we made our way to our grandmother's bedside.

After faking us out for a while, my grandmother actually woke up, was able to recognize me, tried to talk as best she could. The first thing she asked was for my son--I sadly explained the situation but brought out his school photo from my wallet, which she held in her shaking hand to admire for 5 minutes or so. I set it up on the bedside table for her continued viewing. We bent in to try to hear her words, hanging on them and desperately trying to understand, trying to grasp all we could in whatever precious time we had left.

The labored conversation finally took its toll on her; we could clearly see her rising exhaustion. For the last time, I told my grandmother that I loved her. I kissed her emaciated forehead, smoothed back her hair, watched as her eyes closed, her mind retreated to some much-needed rest.

Complimentarily, my cousin and I retreated to a nearby pub for a much-needed beer. We didn't talk about her or our feelings, being from good WASPish stock as we are; she was there nonetheless. For better or worse, despite my renewed idealistic hopes that perhaps she would overcome all odds and recover, I now held in my head the last visual image I'd ever have of her. I have it now, when I choose to conjure it up. It's usually followed by a cheesy movie-like montage of images, finally coming back to rest on that last one again.

Mainly because it is the last.