Sick

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Sick

          I have been thinking about murdering my grandma.
          I have been seriously contemplating it for quite some time now.  
          The thought has actually been nestling in my head and niggling at my heart ever since the last stroke left my grandma paralyzed and confined her to bed.
          At times the urge has been so strong that I find myself awakened in the middle of the night. I would sneak out of my bed in the shadow and silence of the darkness, and unknowingly, but unsurprisingly, find myself standing next my grandma’s bed.
          I would stare down at the boney face, serene and relaxed in
deep sleep, half-lit by the soft touches of the moon light that trickle in through the window. The face which was once dignified and beauty personified, was now nothing more than an aged mask.
          I would imagine in my head, how easy it would be to wrap my fingers around the frail neck, or place a pillow on the once beautiful face, and strangle the life out of the decaying body.
          And I am sure grandma would not object nor protest, and would not even put up a fight.
          The stroke had damaged her more psychologically than physically, and it seemed life was seeping out of her by the minute.
          It is depressing that a person who loved life so much could be dealt such a cruel blow, and is now living only on borrowed time. The doctor had said that she was lucky to still be alive after the stroke, but I am not sure grandma would agree.
          How could you call it being alive, when it is a life lived only on a bed?
          For a carefree and free-spirited person such as grandma, who used to do anything and go anywhere her heart pleases, being confined to the bed is as severe as a death sentence.
          The stroke also took grandma’s speech, and she could now only communicate through the constantly weakening waves of her thin hands.
          And I have often caught her teary pleading eyes, as sad and sorrowful as the eyes of a bird trapped in a cage, demanding to be released from this torment and misery. I could do no more than to join her in crying, and recalling the treasured memories of yesteryears.

          When mom and dad got divorced, I was sent here to live with grandma in the suburbs. I had always enjoyed grandma’s somewhat eccentric lifestyle, and we grew so close grandma soon became my best friend and confidante, and I practically became her second daughter.
         Grandma knew everyone in the neighbourhood, and everyone knew the lovely old lady, who greeted everyone with smiles as warm as the sunshine.
          Grandma loved nothing more than to travel to new places and make new friends. Any opportunity we had, we would be on the bus, or the train heading to a location that we had spontaneously picked out from a map.
          Grandma was an irresistibly beautiful woman, the kind that
would turn heads as she waltzed by, and I would always enjoy the
attention and perks that came with being her granddaughter, a toffee or two here, an extra large ice-cream or a larger portion of mashed potatoes there.
          But the thing I loved most about grandma, even more than
her smiles, was her laughter. It was not a girlish giggling, but a sincere hearty outburst, which was always contagious. Anyone who heard her laughter would not be able to resist a smile or even joining in.
          Grandma loved life more than anybody I know, and she had
lived every minute of everyday without regret.
          And it is the reason why seeing her in this shape hurt me
even more. She had become deadwood, waiting for life to flicker
out of her. I could not bare to see her like this.
          I reached out my hand to her neck, and my fingertips touched the soft sagging tissue. I bit hard on my lips as I tried to will myself to not listen to my heart, and grant my grandma’s wish and pleading. She stirred a little but did not wake.
          But the memories came flooding back, like water gushing out of a bursted dam. I saw how excited she was when she took me on my first rollercoaster ride, and bungy jumping.
          I want to cherish and treasure all the images and memories of my grandma as a strong and free-spirited woman.
          But the truth was lying in front of me.
          I realized then that as much as I loved my grandma, and didn’t want to see her suffer in paralysis, I loved her too much to be the executioner. I would rather have her at my side, living and breathing, then to not have her at all.
          I lowered my hands and took hold of her frail hands, and I squeezed them gently, before laying my head next to my sleeping
grandma, feeling peace for the first time in a long time.
          For better or for worse, in sickness or in health, till death
do us part.   

                                                *******