Sandra is my grandmother. We always called her "Nana with the Red Hair" because when I was a toddler, "Sandra" was too hard to pronounce.
Anyway, she's 97 years old and is going through a hell of a time the last month or so. She's lived in southern california since about 1915 -- her family general store and farm had one of the first phones and gas stations in the valley -- and she has now lived long enough so that modern medicine can keep her alive beyond the point where she would have presumably died 20, even 10 years ago.
She can't really speak. She can't control her body. But there is a chance all this can come back to her.
I've faced more deaths than I care to admit at this point in my life. This inevitable one is no easier. Actually, when it does happen, probably harder. I don't know why. I should feel sadder for people I've loved who have died young, right? 97 years old is a good a long life, right?
I think what's getting me right now is the current situation: hospitalized, unable to really communicate, in pain: it's not fair. She shouldn't have to go this way. It's not fair.
But, it's a part of life.