I got a text from my mother at 7:47 a.m. on Tuesday morning: “Good morning. I am at Porter with Grandma. She has broken her left hip. She will need surgery, possibly a hip replacement, either today or tomorrow. Waiting for the doctor. She is on a low dose of morphine and comfortable. Lifeone called me. I will keep you posted.” I responded with gratitude for her timely notification and asked to be kept apprised of any developments. I felt really bad for my poor Grandma Rita, all alone in that big house, suffering a broken hip in the darkness awaiting emergency medical services. It must have been a scary, painful, embarrassing experience. Just before this, she had suffered a stroke (the impetus for getting Lifeone services) in addition to having developed troubling heart palpitations. “It has not been a kind year,” she said while she lay in the hospital bed, “86 is damn old.”

***

Robert (Bob) Hill Sr. and Rita Kennedy were married on­­­­­­­­ May 14^th, 1949. Their union produced eight children (now seven, RIP Mary) of whom my mother, Christine, is the eldest; they had six girls and two boys. My grandfather, Bob, along with his father, Harold, owned and operated a farm machinery company at 3100 Brighton Boulevard in Denver called Hill’s Machinery. Bob bought a plumbing business in 1972 and started Do-It-Ur-Self Plumbing and Heating Supply on the same property. He worked tirelessly and built Do-It into a successful business, which is now in its 44^th year of operation at the same location in what is now called Denver’s Rino District. Bob and Rita raised their children in South Denver in a beautiful, three-story, foursquare house that a century earlier prominent Denver socialite and businessman John Wesley Iliff (the namesake of Iliff School of Theology) had built for his own family.

My two uncles, Rick and Robert, have spent almost their entire lives at Do-It, and have owned and operated it since Bob passed away eight years ago. It remains profitable and has provided livelihoods both temporary and extended for many of Bob and Rita’s children and grandchildren. I started working at Do-It after spinning my wheels in the restaurant industry for a few years. I wanted to know how the world works and figured learning a trade would be a good first step. I called Rick and he said, “Be there Monday. We start at eight.”

Robert is an absolute expert; a master of his craft. He’s worked six days a week for almost four decades. He’s a man of few words, pious and stoic in equal measure, but not completely without humor. Rick is more laid back, with shaggy blonde hair and a solid build. Rick is prone to pontificate, his voice like gravel grinding under a steel toe boot. Rick will tell you all about anything ranging from politics all the way to politics. On occasion, if he’s inspired, he will also discuss politics. You’re never on the fence as to where Rick stands, and he usually approaches things with a darkly cynical sense of humor.

Since my Grandfather’s death, my strong, devoutly Irish-Catholic Grandmother has become the matriarch of the family, ruling effectively, but not always objectively. Fiercely intelligent, she’s a skilled conversationalist, a raconteur, and possesses an acerbic wit. She’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, and I’ve had the opportunity to get to know her over the past few years at Do-It. Every Saturday, for as long as I’ve worked there, she has faithfully and tirelessly brought lunch for the troops, always three courses and always made from scratch. She had to hang up her apron a few months ago after the stroke and Rick has taken over her duties; he alternates between chili, spaghetti, and pizza. Rita's presence in the kitchen is sorely missed.

Per my Grandfather’s will, my Grandmother owns the two acres upon which the business sits. She has guaranteed income and wants for nothing, except during tax season. The value of the property has skyrocketed in the last few years as artists, restaurateurs, and entrepreneurs have turned this once seedy side of Denver into a desirable destination for the young and affluent. Well, that, and the legal weed don't hurt. My most successful joke that I use to describe the change is: “I never expected to see pretty girls running up and down Brighton Boulevard unless it was from something.” Gets a laugh almost every time. As a result of this growth we’ve had several offers to buy the property, which has caused a bit of a divide among the family. Some members would really like to see the property sold for financial gain. Others would like to see the history of the family and the business preserved. As it stands, the latter party is winning, but there may one day come an offer that is too good to refuse. Time will tell.

So, I went to work on the same Tuesday I got the text from my mother and, needless to say, the atmosphere around the shop was grim. A broken hip is a serious matter; it almost always requires surgery and months of rehabilitation. It is almost always life-changing. At the very least it makes you dependent on other people, and if you are a self-sufficient and private person like my Grandmother, that may be a fate worse than death.

***

My mother called me from the hospital the following morning to inform me that surgery was scheduled, and that Rita would be going in around lunch time and be finished within an hour or two. I made a plan with my mom to visit after work the following day. I went to school, but was just the slightest bit preoccupied. Rita was going to require a lot more care and attention, and she was probably going to have to find a new place to live; she may even have to relocate to an assisted living center, doomed to forever lose her autonomy.

Towards the end of my day, I got a cryptic text from my mom: “Call me when you are out of school, please.” It gave me an ominous feeling, and I had trouble concentrating for the rest of class. I called my mom when I was finished. She picked up almost right away. “Hi son, how are you doing?”

“I’m ok… how are you?” I asked suspiciously.

“Oh, I’m ok. Listen, I’m really sorry to just hit you over the head with this, but I’m here at the hospital with Grandma, and she wants us to let her go,” she said.

“What? I mean… She just wants to die? How did this escalate so fast? This really feels like we went from zero to sixty in no time. What have the doctors said?”

“Listen, please just come down to the hospital if you can. She’s awake, and she’s talking. She can hear you, and I would like you to come down and see her, just in case.” I said ok, and hung up the phone. I was bewildered, in denial, and I headed to Porter’s to see for myself.

I arrived at the hospital and walked into the lobby. “Can I help you find something, sir?” I turned around to see a kind face offering me assistance.

“Uh, yeah… I’m here to see Rita Hill. I believe she is in room 4107.”

The woman snapped to action, verifying the room number on her computer. “Yep, looks like they haven’t moved her yet. I’m headed in that direction; I’d be glad to show you to the elevators!” I accepted her offer and trailed her through the hospital’s expansive lobby, past the food court and the gift shop. I wondered to myself why anyone would want a souvenir from this place.

“How are you doin’ today?” Her question dragged me from my reverie.

“Well, I’m ok I guess… My grandmother broke her hip yesterday, and I got a call from my mom today that she wants us to let her go.” The woman looked surprised. I continued, “I guess I’m… is that… is it even legal?”

She looked down at the large, brown tiles and eventually said, “Well, I think you should just speak with a doctor about that, about her options. It’s very unusual. I can tell you that!” We both forced out an uneasy chuckle, and she gave me directions for the other leg of my journey. I ascended to the 4^th floor and found Rita’s room. My eldest sister was standing out front, her eyes bloodshot and teary.

“I thought I recognized that guy! How ya doin’, buddy? She’s in there, but she looks worse than she is. Talk to her, and she’ll talk back. She can hear you.” I gave my sister a hug and walked into the room. A few of my aunts, my cousins, my brother, my other sister, and my mom were all in various states of standing and sitting around the room. Rita was sunken, frail, and looked nothing like herself as she lay there in the hospital bed. There was a chair open next to her bed so I took it.

My mother approached. “Mom, Ad’s here. MOM— Addison is here. G’head honey, take her hand. She can hear you.” The tears came almost immediately as I picked up her arthritic hand, her skin thin and translucent as tracing paper.

“Hi Grandma!” I choked out through some weird grunts that seemed to spring from nowhere. My grandmother smiled, and tightened her grip.

“Dear Addison,” she whispered, barely audible.

“Hey, Grandma, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I used to come visit you in Sun City West, every spring break, do you remember that? You’d take me to all those classes and we’d do art together? Thank you so much for that. I— I wish I had more time with you.”

My younger cousin who was sitting across from me sobbed a little harder and murmured, “me too.”

Rita smiled wider, and in the tiniest voice she said, “Addison, life is beautiful. Please enjoy it. Please be good to each other. You’re going to be a wonderful writer; I’ve always believed in you.” She clutched a green rosary with little shamrocks imprinted upon the beads in her free hand and began the Prayer to St. Joseph. After she finished, I recited for her the first 18 lines of “The Canterbury Tales” that I had recently memorized for class. I thought that hearing some poetry might lift her spirits. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “It reminds me of Gaelic.”

I rested her hand back on her chest and spoke to my mother for awhile. “So… what have the doctors had to say about this? I mean, isn’t it illegal to just… let her die?”

My mom pursed her lips for a second, thinking. “Well, this is Grandma’s wish. I just really believe that she should have the right to choose when she dies.” Perhaps it was just shock of it all, but I took her answer in faith.

Rita was moved to the oncology ward where the nurses were better equipped to deal with dying patients. We all sat around her bed for hours talking amongst ourselves. Some took turns reading her scripture. I read her Shakespeare’s "Sonnet 74."

Rick came by after work, and he spent at least a half-hour holding Rita’s hand, alternating between giving her kisses on the forehead and kisses on the hand. He held her hand to his cheek, and his face grew deeply crimson and contorted. It was by far the most emotion I’d ever seen him display. After he finished he left the room muttering, “I need to take a walk.” It must have been a long walk, because he didn’t return. Robert showed up later with his family, and they all took turns speaking to her. I left the hospital as I had homework to attend to. When I told Rita this she smiled and said quietly, “Due diligence.”

I returned home, distraught, prone to fits of sobbing and sulking. I was confused. I wondered how it was either legal or moral to let Rita die of dehydration and starvation with a broken hip. The prospect sounded like agony to me. I did a little research online, and found an article about ICU psychosis. I read the article and gleaned that a patient in the ICU can experience delirium while under the influence of a potent drug like morphine, and may sometimes demonstrate symptoms of psychosis— one of which is the desire to die. ICU psychosis also seems to disproportionately affect seniors. This made me suspect Rita wasn’t in her right mind and may not truly wish to die.

I retreated to bed at my wife’s behest. I went to work at Do-It the next day, and the atmosphere was now positively morose. Robert and I, being the first to arrive, discussed it extensively. “Y’know….” He trailed off, gripping his chin and thinking. “That death sounds like misery to me. Broken hip, can’t even have a bowel movement without, God forbid, severe pain or help. Someone has to clean you. In bed all day. It’s not right. It’s just not right.” I concurred, at least to the extent that I didn’t want my Grandmother to go through it. This seemed to embolden Robert. When Rick arrived, Robert took him into the break room and closed the door. I could hear the outlines and echoes of the conversation, and it sounded as if they had resolved to fight the decision. Rick hurried off from the kingdom and headed to the hospital. Robert and I stayed to man the shop.

***

My mother, Christine, is in the unenviable position of being the eldest child of a dynasty. Eternally responsible, she’s the embodiment of one of my Grandfather Bob’s favorite adages: “If you worry about it, it won’t happen.” A less popular adage of his, that unfortunately also applies to my mom, is, “girls don’t go to college.” Nonetheless, my mother has been inarguably successful; she possesses inherent business smarts in addition to a god-like ability to handle money. She’s a self-made woman, devoted to her children and grandchildren, and endlessly apologetic; she’s spiritual but not religious, quick to laugh, and as possessive of her own mordant sense of humor.

My mother is also sensitive, and empathetic, with a fragile, bleeding, liberal heart. No blow cuts her as deeply as those which come from her family. My mother and my grandmother haven’t always seen eye to eye— in fact, they rarely do. Rita has always had her favorites among the children, and, she has generally favored the blondes. My mother is not blonde. She has Bob’s rich mahogany hair, which stays dark into old age. So when Rick swooped in (Rita’s masculine, towheaded, first-born son), it took little convincing then to change her mind. He appealed to her faith. He told her this wasn’t God’s plan. In an instant, Rita betrayed my mother’s faith in honoring her decision, ignoring all that she had said a day earlier. Worst of all, she reinforced the political pecking order.

My mother was subject to intense scorn from Rick. Her decision-making was called into question, and she was made to feel guilty for advocating Rita’s decision to die. Rick credited himself with "saving her life," and went on a smear campaign against my mother. Objectively, everyone was trying to do the right thing according to their beliefs. Subjectively, the whole thing is a bit of a mindfuck and symptomatic of the twisted, conflicting struggle for power that almost always exists within a large family. Especially when there’s money or property involved.

I got a text from my mom later that day, a photo of Rita in her hospital gown standing up with the assistance of a walker. It made everything that had recently transpired seem like some strange dream. Kinda like a soap opera. It was a secondhand photo; my mom had declined to see Rita after her surgery.

In the months since, Rita has worked hard in physical therapy and regained some mobility. Her children and grandchildren have alternated staying overnight, taking care of her and providing company. Heroically, Rick spared no expense in building her a handicapped bathroom that will allow her to easily and comfortably take care of herself.

In June, she found herself back in hospice care after she began retaining a great deal of fluid, particularly in her lungs, an early sign of congestive heart failure. Again, she made comments that she would like to go, to die. This time, however, there was no pageantry. There were no crowded rooms. No bleared eyes. No “Canterbury Tales,” no prayers to St. Joseph. Everyone was worn out. But she again recovered and is back at home getting stronger by the day.

A little over a week ago, a committee again defeated a proposed bill that would allow for assisted suicide in Colorado. As it stands, in the United States, the procedure is legal in Oregon only. The bottom line is this: patient choice, whether conveyed verbally or non-verbally, is paramount in these cases. While the (Colorado State) law draws the boundary at requesting doctor assistance to die, Rita was well within her rights to refuse food, water and preventative care, which is a right I believe we all should have. The lingering question is this: in a matter of life and death, do family politics or personal politics matter more?