I sat motionless next to my grandfather on his deathbed. His paper thin, scaly skin, swelled arms, and toothless grin laid shaking. His unintelligible sounds and writhing, anguished gesticulations made us aware that his Oxycontin was wearing off. My grandmother, with a smile, was talking to him through it all.

“Do you want something to drink” she said.
“Uhh”, which for us, was close enough to a “yes” as we were expecting to get.
“What do you want?” she said kindly, halfheartedly.
“Wizkey ‘n’ watur” without missing a beat. My grandmother laughed. As soon as she did, we all felt comfortable enough to join.

My grandmother tried giving him a carnation breakfast shake, and then water, but he wasn’t having anything. He shouted, grumbled with the straw sticking in his mouth, unable to raise his hands or fight back. She withdrew the straw as he got louder and physically upset.

“No. I don’t want that”, he shouted, understandably. It pained him to raise his voice and flex his diaphragm. He was out of breath by the end of the sentence.
“Ok. All right.”, as she has said a million times before.

Before she got up, she tested him.

“What’s my name?”
“Wha?” he said angrily, annoyed.
“I said what’s my name?”, louder and closer to his face.
“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful” he said calmly, exhaling a deep breath, as if he had said it a million times before.