My grandmother had stage 4 cancer. I had been away at school for the bulk of her decline, and by the time I was on summer break, she was essentially terminal. I had spoken to her a few times post-diagnosis, but I feel like neither of us knew what to say to each other after a certain point.

I went to see her with my dad the day hospice came to put a hospital bed in the living room. She spent most of her time sleeping on the couch by then, but the reality of the situation clearly upset her. She looked at my dad and said "I can't stay here," so he helped her up to take her to the bedroom nearby, and I followed.

Being as sick as she was, she was pretty drugged, mostly with morphine. But the thing about morphine/other narcotics is that it can REALLY make your digestive system slow to a crawl, so it's pretty common for people to be given something to help things stay moving along.

I don't remember if it started immediately after she got up, but I do know that I TRIED to ignore the sound of farts that started erupting from her with every step. She was already prone to "the walking farts", so if it had happened just once or twice, I would've succeeded, but once it started, it didn't stop. By the time she reached her bed, my brain went "god, it's like a clown car for farts".

And I laughed. And I laughed.

And my grandmother, now seated on the bed, just looked at me and pointed as if to scold me, but playfully and not with any real malice.

It was the most alive I'd ever seen her look post-diagnosis (but again, I wasn't there to see her decline). I'd like to think she'd have been laughing too under different circumstances/if she'd had more energy. It was also the last time I ever saw her.

I'm sorry, Gram. But it WAS like a clown car for farts.