The Night Owl Returns

Once again I checked the time. Now. I dragged myself out of bed and along the corridor, tying my robe as I walked, not bothering to cover my yawn.

It’s OK, I reminded myself, I’ve had plenty of practice at being a night owl.

Overseas phone calls in the middle of my night time. Bottle feeding rejected lambs on cold winter nights. Working on a Uni assignment all night the day before it’s due.

The corridor wasn’t very long. I was here.

I took a second to collect myself, pulling the corners of my mouth and eyes into a smile before opening the door as quietly as I could.

No sound. Not even breathing. She was lying very still, a small lump in the bed. That lump was very small…was it actually her?

I moved closer. Yes, it was her. She was awake.

“How are you Grandma?”

“What time is it?”

“It’s 3am. Just checking you’re OK.” My smile was real now. It was so good to see her safe and comfortable.

“I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Sure!” I pulled back the covers. “Let me help you.” As though my offer was voluntary, not necessary.

With the strength and grace that had gotten her this far in life, my 90 year old grandmother pulled herself upright, holding my hand, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She stopped to rest, panting slightly from the exertion. In the last stages of heart failure, everything was a marathon.

I pulled her walker into position and held it down, so she could pull herself up on it. Off she went. Confident now. She was wearing an adult nappy, but still preferred the dignity of reaching the toilet in time. This was one of those times.

I helped her get into position, tugging the nappy out of the way as her jittering indicated the urgency. Her relief as she sat was palpable. She had achieved a victory over her failing body. A success in managing almost like she was used to.

My Grandma was a tiny woman full of fierce determination. I’m sure she had known many struggles I have never heard of. She was social and gregarious, yet self-contained. I’m sure none of her many friends throughout her life imagined the depths of grief she managed. The death of her uncle, father, cousin, mother, several friends, her sons, her husband. They had been a true partnership.

A brave face. Not denial, though. She spoke of it, if it was relevant to the conversation. Empathy and encouragement for others. Always a light of positivity. Dignity.

She hated the loss of freedom and dignity more than anything. Her gradual infirmity she accepted grudgingly, with as much grace as she could. A fatalistic generation that rolled with the punches.

But now she had less control than ever. Her once piercing intelligence was sometimes vague now. Her unreliable mother had led her not to lean on anyone. But she was leaning now. Literally and figuratively.

I helped her up. She had done her own wiping. Slowly, with effort. But she had, again, succeeded by sheer willpower.

She managed the couple of steps to the sink and washed her own hands. She remembered the soap this time. Sometimes she got confused and used moisturiser from the pump. That worked too, as long as she washed it off. It was just a bit less effective and a bit more expensive.

I put the walker into position again and she walked herself back to bed, lowering herself a little too quickly to sit on the edge. Panting again.

“Could I have some juice, dear?”

“Of course, Grandma. Are you OK there?”

She nodded. I think she wished she didn’t have to reassure me, but after the many falls, I had to be sure she was paying attention to her own physical space.

I hurried back with the juice as quickly as I could. Part of the reason for these middle-of-the night checks was her getting up and wandering about, then falling. Not realising she had done any of it, forgetting she needed a walker, lying on the floor asking me how she got there. It was heart-breaking.

This tiny bird of a woman. With the heart of a lioness. A heart that was slowly leaking and failing her. The earlier operations had extended her time. There were no more chances now. She was beyond saving. Now all I could do was keep her as comfortable and safe as possible. Give her the comfort of dying in her own home, surrounded by her own things, her memories and anchors. Away from strangers and discomfort. Make sure she knew that she was loved, after all the love she had given.

Almost a century, but that last ten years was a few years too long for her to achieve. I hope I make it that long, and do as much good in the world.

Now, she sipped some juice. Barely any, but that’s as much as she wanted. I offered her water as well. She shook her head.

I moved both glasses to the safety of the dresser. Painful experience had taught us they were just a hazard when left on the bedside table.

She settled herself back into bed. I adjusted the covers. Smiling at her relaxation, I stroked her hair and kissed her cheek.

“Light on or off?”

“Leave it on. Can you put my music on, dear?”

“Of course.” The sounds of glorious classical music floated softly but firmly across the room from the CD player.

I kissed her cheek again.

“Goodnight Grandma.”

“Goodnight dear,” Her piercing eyes met mine. She was her old self again for a moment, but our roles were reversed from when she used to tuck me into bed with a lullaby.

We smiled softly at each other, perhaps both thinking the same thing.

I quietly left the room, leaving the door ajar so that I could hear her call out, or if she fell.

I trotted back along the corridor to my room, and set my alarm for 4 hours. Hopefully she would stay in bed that long.

"Here I am again, in the middle f the night," I thought to myself.

As a teenager and Uni student, I’d stayed up late doing homework, sometimes in front of the TV. My mother’s exasperated cry was “You’re such a night owl! Plan better!”

I’d had a cat which slept on my bed, and liked to go out in the middle of the night. I used to say that was good practice for having babies, who needed breastfeeding in the middle of the night. It really was.

Sick children needing mid-night care were much easier to manage, I told myself at the time, because I’d worked night shift at the Shelter.

An hour is an hour. It doesn’t matter so much when that hour is, once you’ve had some practice.

Now, I was using that practice to care for my Grandma. A couple of hours sleep here and there was not the best way to live, but it wouldn’t be forever.

That made me sad, and I cried. Anticipating the death that I knew was coming. The hospital had even given me the paperwork for it already. Getting some of the grief work done early would make it easier later, I knew. Maybe not a lot easier, but a bit.

Now I couldn’t sleep. I threw back the covers.

Restlessly I went to the window and pulled back a curtain. Looking out into the dark, lit only by moonlight, I saw a silent shadow glide through the sky. A barn owl? No screeching, just silence. Maybe that means there aren't rodents here and it's just passing through.

Somehow, that was comforting. Solidarity in nocturnal activity. Calm in going about one’s work in the dead of night.

I smiled into the night, and looked up at the moon. “Hello friend,” I murmured.

I got back into bed, refusing to look at the clock, knowing the alarm was set.

Even us night owls need some sleep. I was sound asleep in seconds.