Hazel?

It had been so long since I heard the name that it took me a while to nod and respond with a “yes” to the smiling receptionist.

My mother called Wednesday night to inform me that her mother, my Grandma, Hazel Veillieux (pronounced ‘Vear’), wasn’t “doing very well.” She had recently been moved to Martha and Mary and even more recently had become unable to ingest food.

“She’s been choking on it,” my mother explained, noting that, at this point and due to an ongoing case of pneumonia, there was really nothing much doctors could do for her.

“How old is she?” I asked.

“Ninety-three,” mom said. She might have one or two weeks at the most, my mother added with obvious restraint in her voice.

“I’ll go see her Saturday,” I pledged.

Guess again.

At my girlfriend Caroline’s urging, my busy Thursday would be the day of the visit. Her reasoning was that my grandma might not be around on Saturday. If this was the case, I’d never see her again alive.

Besides, she made me promise to go.

My mother had warned me that, grandma didn’t even recognized her. Heading down the hall at Martha and Mary to meet “Hazel” — I quickly realized that I no longer recognized her, either.

Her eyes were barely open and her mouth was gaping as if any breath might very well be her last.

“Grandma?” I asked.

She didn’t acknowledge my presence — much less give me one of those fragrant hugs I remember from my childhood. She just continued to look into nowhere. That place between life and death.

A nurse came by and patted her on the head, remarking, “Hazel’s a real sweetheart.”

“Are you her son?”

“Grandson.”

That was about all I could muster. I don’t think I’ve ever been so close to death before and, honestly, it was scaring the hell out of me.

I touched her forehead, she closed her eyes a bit. My hands looked so strong, so young compared to hers. Grandma’s skin looked like a spotty papier-maché, frail and gray. I was afraid I’d tear her.

“Hey there grandma,” I said touching her cheek. Tickling her ear.

Nothing.

Another nurse came by and informed me that they were having Catholic Mass on Feb. 23. I smiled but told her that Hazel might not be around for it, she nodded in sad agreement.

After about 10 minutes of patting and grooming I felt compelled to leave her there and said good-bye. My Grandpa Veillieux, or “Joseph,” was one floor down and would certainly be glad to see me.

“Hey grandpa.”

“Grandpa?”

I edged through the dark room to find Joseph huddled over a bowl of cream of wheat. He was more interested in making sure he got enough sugar in his tea than he was to see me. I stood right next to him.

“Grandpa?”

He didn’t even look up.

It was too much.

I headed for the door, took the stairs and went to the exit. Finding myself faced with a locked gate that was about hip high, without a second thought, I quickly vaulted over.

Landing safely, I realized that as far back as I could remember, such acts were second nature. I also understood that, as time passes, my second nature would be changing dramatically.

This won’t be an overnight process, of course. But it will be a process, nonetheless.

It’s easy to be strong when you go to the gym, hike, surf, bike and stay active. But what will I do when my body tells me I’m too old to do the things I love? When the photos of mountain tops and hidden rivers are all I have to augment a bunch of fading memories and over-told stories? When someone younger must tell me of their own conquered savage lands.

Will I be strong enough to be weak someday?

I just don’t know… but I can only hope…