ELIZABETH BUCHINGER

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THIS WONDERFUL LIFE

When I was a kid, I used to cope with the possibility of disaster by employing the same method we were taught at school: Fire Drills.
My logic – if you had asked me – was that you prepare for the unthinkable by, well, thinking about it, practicing for it. At school, that meant recognizing the fire alarm, calmly closing books and lining up behind the teacher at the door. The teacher would demonstrate the prudent way to open the door, checking it first for heat with the back of her hand before touching what could be a searing metal doorknob. Once in the hallway, we would file quickly, but carefully to the nearest exit. Once outside, the teacher would perform a head count to be sure we were all safe.
When confronted with something both horrible and inevitable, I would run through an emotional fire drill, imagining how I would find out about the tragedy, how I would react, what I would do, how I would get safely out of the building.
Once, when my parents took me to a Pink Panther movie that, as a 9-year-old prude, I felt was far too racy for me to be watching, I became convinced that the authorities were going to burst into the theater and arrest my parents. I fire-drilled it. The cops would haul them away. I would beg them not to take my parents, and do my best to convince them that none of us knew just how sexy Dyan Cannon was going to be on screen. In the end, they would listen to me, and my parents would be so grateful, they would finally let me have a phone in my room.
I also used to fire-drill my grandmother’s death. This is unsurprising because a.) I’ve always been very close to my grandmother and b.) she has been fire-drilling her own death for as long as I can remember.
For at least 30 years, Stormy has been giving instructions about what I am to do when the Lord finally takes her. She has even provided me with a helpful roster of who is and who is not allowed to shed tears at her funeral. To be honest, now that she is going on 96-years-old, much of that list is a moot point.
Two weeks ago, I got word that she was in Richmond, where my aunt lives, battling a case of shingles. A day later, I got word that she had fallen in her room at the assisted living facility and was in the hospital. Stormy wasn’t eating, she asked the doctors not to treat her. She wasn’t even interested in her favorite subject, politics, and, according to my aunt, it looked like it was time to say goodbye.
The next morning, I packed my suitcase and raced to Virginia as quickly as state speed limits would allow. When I saw my grandmother, I was shocked. In just a few months, she had aged exponentially. The hair that remained thick and dark well into her 70s was thin and white. She was absolutely skeletal – probably not even 80 pounds. And she was in terrible pain as a result of both shingles and a possible fracture in her lumbar spine.
I held her hand and stroked her head and was grateful, for the first time, that she is no longer able to see, because I did not want her to see how I cried, leaning my head on the bedrail and letting tears pour onto the white, waxed floor.
This was never in my fire drill. When my grandmother was 2, her Irish grandfather nicknamed her Stormy, and his descendants have agreed with his insight for generations. My grandmother is tough as nails, stubborn, tenacious and willful. When her husband became abusive, she raised four children by herself in the 1950s, and then went on to practically raise one grandchild and a great-grandchild.
I never expected her to go gently into that good night – I expected her to go with great force of will and commitment. I expected she would wake up one morning and tell the Lord, “It’s time,” and that, like everyone else who knew her, he would listen.
When I saw her in that hospital bed, utterly vulnerable to such wrenching pain, running her thumb across the crucifix of the rosary beads wrapped on her wrist, I got stormy myself. On my way to get coffee for my aunt and cousin, I stopped in the chapel, sharing what must be familiar sentiments of unfairness.
Over the next two days, her pain seemed to subside, and as it did, she became more aware of who was visiting her. We had real conversations. I had a chance to thank her for being good to me, and she replied with a shrug, “Well, I always loved you.”
Although I wished I could stay to help my aunt, I had to come home, where I would rely on daily updates. The first day was grim – her doctor wondered if it was time to shift goals from treatment to comfort.
Then the next day, she seemed a little stronger. Another day went by, and she asked for lunch. Three days later, she ate an entire plate of spaghetti.
As of press time, she has been released to a rehab facility, where she’s proving just how Stormy she can be.

Elizabeth Trever Buchinger remembers to stop, drop and roll. She can be reached at
VillageWordsmith@gmail.com.

Labels: 062708, Columns, Elizabeth Buchinger, This Wonderful Life