On Prayer and the Babcia

I intended in my coaching call this morning to write from 6 until 8 tonight. Ended up getting back from yoga at 6:10, decided that since the recycling guy still hadn't come that this was clearly a message for me to put out the recycling, then read a couple of blog posts. I also still have to take a shower and prep dinner. So my 2 hours of writing is quickly turning into less than an hour and a half.

Anyhoo, I wanted to share my thoughts on what I noted in the subject line. I went to church on Easter Sunday, for 11 o'clock mass. After the wacky priest yelled at us for not being loud enough (He is risen! I should be able to hear you in downtown Concord!) and had us renounce Satan and then sprinkled us with water for a re-baptizing (which I must say it quite the nice thing about being Catholic. Just go once a year on Easter. You get the whole past year of badness erased and a nice little baptism refresher to go with your main dish of Jesus being resurrected. Good stuff.) and after I took communion I knelt down to pray. We were seated in the second row, right behind the handicapped section, so as to be closer to the Babcia, who is becoming older and decrepiter by the minute.

But not, at least according to McMumsy, fast enough. And I trust her opinion enough to be nervous about what she said. She thinks my grandmother might have five years left in her. The problem is that her mind is starting to go. The cracks in her psyche are starting to widen. But she's got the super-peasant body, thick, and strong. And she's built to last: She had a kidney out in the 1930's, had a kidney stone removed, then had stomach cancer, a hysterectomy, had her gallbladder removed, and now has congestive heart failure. And still she lives.

After communion at church this Easter Sunday, I prayed for her death. And I don't know how I feel about that.