My grandmother is dying, and I do not know how I feel about it. For me, the mourning process began around ten years ago, when she was first diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease and her strong personality began to slowly evaporate. It has been about five years since she went into the nursing home and lost her ability to walk or speak. She used to recognize me when I came to visit – you could see it in her eyes – but it has been a long, long time since my grandmother has truly been alive for me. Visits to support her quickly transformed into visits to support my grandfather, who every day sat at her bedside for at least ten hours, tending to her every messy need. He is a cantankerous man, deeply critical of the way things are going in the world, but the true injustice is in what has happened to his wife of over fifty years.

I was vacationing in Western Maryland with some of my dearest friends when the news came. My father called from the nursing home and said that things did not look good, that she would likely die before the night was out. She did not, but I have been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since.

It is a blessing, right? That someone with no quality of life, with no life at all, should pass out of extended suffering? This is what people tell me. This is what I tell myself. But nothing about this seems blessed.

When a true blessing comes, people are happy.

As this curse lifts, I only feel numb.