The Silence Was a Choice

But everybody knew

For years, my husband and I lived in a cabin in the woods. It was the kind of place people daydream about when they’re stuck in traffic: deer in the yard, ducks on the lake, and a hammock swaying from the porch.

After years of raising kids among various family dramas, we thought we had finally reached the peaceful, empty nest stage of life, and we could relax a bit.

But...no.

Long before the cabin, I’d spent the last stretch of my grandmother’s life helping to manage her care.

Glioblastoma had stolen her words and abilities, but she could still sing along to songs she loved. She understood more than people sometimes assumed.

I knew it when I watched her cry wordlessly as her daughter-in-law implied legal battles and questioned her ability to make her own decisions in the hospital.

Grandma had named me her medical proxy. It wasn't a role I particularly wanted, but she trusted me to make the decisions she feared her husband and children wouldn't be able to make.

So I promised her I would.

When she died, my mother, grandfather, and I were all at home with her, but none of us knew.

Nothing.

Her son was sitting with her, and instead of alerting my grandfather, who'd been married to her for fifty-eight years, he quietly called his wife and waited for her to arrive.

Why?

Because she, a long-retired LPN had insisted she be the only one to know first, the only one to confirm the obvious, which was news to me.

By the time Grandpa knew his wife was gone, his chance to be with her was gone.

That silence was a choice.