Five S., IN

My grandmother, Barbara (pictured,) had struggled with COPD since before I was born. I wish I had known her before it was as bad as it had been, but I know from anecdotes of her family and friends that she was a healthy, active, and strong woman before the decline.

When I was nine, I walked into her house and saw, for the first time not on an episode of Grey’s Anatomy, and oxygen tank and tube. I knew not to mention it. I could tell that she was embarrassed that she needed it and embarrassed that she could barely walk to her room without sitting down to catch her breath.

When I was 14, I heard my father, grandfather, and grandmother all talking about my grandma getting on the transplant list for a new set of lungs. I remember everything leading up to her getting on that list. She had multiple root canals, physical therapy, cancer screenings, blood work, and everything led to her successfully getting a new set of lungs.

My father sat me down and told me she had gotten the call. From what I knew this was a good thing. I knew how hard it was for her to get around, to do the things she loved. And I knew there were risks, that she may not make it out of the surgery.

When we finally got word about what had happened, it seemed like things were going to be okay. Like everything had worked out. They told us it was a textbook surgery, that nothing had gone wrong, and that she should be able to live with her new lungs for a while longer.

We got her a stuffed pair of lungs to congratulate her. It was Christmas. Even though she was in the hospital she made sure to get us each something special, even though it was smaller than we were used to. There was a mini Christmas tree in her hospital room.

I would visit her without my father and grandfather as well. Even though my parents are divorced, everyone on both sides adored Barbara. My mom would take me to Trader Joe’s and let me pick out flowers to give her. I picked purple and blue, her favorite colors.

I’d get her snack boxes, making sure they only had things she was allowed to eat. (We would joke about whether or not it was worth it if she couldn’t even eat runny eggs.) She’d bought perfume for me. She said it was more androgynous than most perfumes she’d seen, and that it was popular with the nurses, even though they weren’t supposed to wear anything scented in the transplant ward. She gave me a necklace with the golden spiral on it.

Soon, my grandfather gave us bad news.

She had a wound that hadn’t been closed properly during surgery. The wound care team was too busy to properly take care of it. Eventually they got it stitched and taken care of but there was a whole domino effect of problems from there.

Nobody would tell me the exact details. All I got was that they nicked her intestine during the surgery, and it was causing issues.

Eventually she went septic. The last interaction I had with her was a FaceTime call my grandpa had set up. She passed on April 10th, 2024. (The same day as OJ Simpson, much to our dismay.)

My grandmother was the most well spoken, smartest, and fearless person I knew.She had her doctorate in organic chemistry, and spent all of her life dedicated to her passion.

She loved the beach, and music, and my grandfather.

She loved painting, and the bay, and cats.

The last thing I remember her saying to me was that she couldn’t wait to walk on the beach again, but she never got to do that.

My dad called me that day. It was raining out. Before I even picked up I knew something was wrong. I said I couldn’t talk, and he said to call me when I could.I went for a walk in a yellow raincoat.

When I got home I called him back. I knew what was coming.

That night my mother and stepfather went out for dinner and offered to let me stay home from school for however long I needed to. I declined. I felt fine. It was weird, not entirely knowing what to do but also knowing that this was inevitable.

When they were out I accidentally hit my hand on a door frame and everything just kind of spilled out.I screamed and cried and hit my bed with pillows till I wore out and fell asleep. I was surprised the neighbors didn’t call the police.

I never told my mom.

I was the first one who went through her stuff. My grandpa told me to just go through her clothes and jewelry and take whatever I wanted. I felt bad, but I knew if I didn’t it would get sold or thrown out. (My grandpa never was very sentimental.)

I wear her pearls whenever I have an excuse to. I use her jewelry box. I found all of her old piano music and try to play what she never got to teach me.It still hasn’t set in fully.

They never found out what caused her COPD, but we’ve always had theories. The story I was always told was that there had been birds living in her vents for years, and with an allergy to them they had ruined her lungs. That coupled with the gas from the stove being contained inside the house and the cigarettes she used to smoke, makes it a pretty probable guess.

She’s still the only person I know who successfully quit smoking. My grandpa was supposed to as well, but I can smell his cigars on his clothes and leather chairs.

COPD isn’t genetic, but if another family member has it, your chance of having it is increased.

My whole life I have been exposed to second hand smoking and vaping.

I’ve taken a vow to myself and her to never even start.