Hi from lovely Rye Brook, New York. I'm in the lobby of my hotel, because down here the wireless is free (if a teeny bit slow). My dad offered to pay for the $9.99 per day so I could be online from my room, but that just seemed so silly. Even sillier is the fact that my brother from LA is sitting across from me, on his own computer. We're finally in the same place for a few days -- without kids dripping from every limb -- and we're both so busy playing with our toys!

I'm here because my grandmother died. (Thank you.) She was nearly 96, so we have all trying to focus on the "celebrating her life" thing as opposed to the "we're grieving" thing. I feel sort of funny about it, but I'm not really sad. I'm emotional because my mom had a bit of a rough go, and there's some family drama that can be disheartening. But for the most part, we've all said that it's nice for so many of us to be together.

I got the call from my mom that Nana had a heart attack early Tuesday morning. We'd just had breakfast, and I was running late to get the boys to Spanish Club when my phone rang. After I got the boys to school, I went to my mom's house. She was pretty frazzled, so I told her I'd drive her to the airport. I got her all packed up, made sure she had her phone, keys, and wallet, and drove her off to O'Hare. She was emotional, and I wished I could go with her and smooth the way. I went to work after that but was really distracted. The phone calls were flying -- my uncle to my brother to me and my mom to me and my dad to me and all of us back and forth. For a while, I heard Nana was rallying and even hungry; the next call warned that my mom might not make it before Nana gave up.

In the end, my grandmother died quietly with all three of her kids (and even two of her grandkids) holding hands, encircling her hospital bed. My mom said it was as if a candle gently blew out.

The thing that's awful is that my grandmother had this really bad night before she died. She lived in an assisted care facility, and she rang for help early in the evening -- she told the person who finally answered the call that she was having pain on her left side and trouble breathing. They told her it wasn't serious enough to call an ambulance, and to try to get some sleep.

My poor, tiny grandmother tossed, turned, moaned, threw up, rang for help, and in the middle of the night they were convinced to call my uncle, but they couldn't reach him. Finally, Nana was able to gesture to her phone -- Uncle Bob's home number was on her speed dial. They called him and he came right away.

By the time he got there, Nana could barely breathe. He picked her up and raced her down to his own car, and went to the hospital at 100 mph, saying "Hold on, Ma!" while she moaned and foamed from the mouth. They took her in hand at the hospital and confirmed the massive heart attack, and ensconced her in the ICU. Twelve hours later, Uncle Dick had arrived from Andover, Mass., and my mom had gotten in from Chicago.

After it was over, my uncle went back to the home, loaded for bear. You have to understand, this is a really ritzy place -- $5000 per month, private apartments, full sit-down meals, etc.

"Why the hell didn't you call an ambulance?" he roared.

The answers:
- Because the hospital complained they called the ambulances too much and for too silly reasons
- Because they didn't think it was that bad
- Because they had a DNR on my grandmother.

And at that point, Bob looked the woman dead in the eye, and said "Did you really just say that to me?" If you've never had to deal with this, a DNR does basically mean "don't save this person if they go code blue," but it's really meant if someone has a fatal illness and they're hanging by a thread. It does not mean, "Let my 95-year-old grandmother suffer horribly until she actually has a massive heart attack."

We're not blaming the home for my grandmother's death. All we blame them for is letting her suffer. A bunch of us went over there today to pack Nana's place, and a case worker came up to talk to us and offer her condolences. My grandmother was beloved there; she was like the queen of the old fogies. The whole time, we stayed as calm as we could, but about six of us had questions and comments on the treatment, and the case worker had no answers for us. My cousin was upset about it.

"She couldn't apologize or agree with us," I told her. "That's as good as admitting they were negligent."

My dad and my uncle are using this as a crusade. "You absolutely need to examine your policies and training," my dad said. My uncle looked at the case worker miserably and said "It's too late for my mom. You can't bring her back and you can't take away what happened. But you can make sure that you never again have a family looking at you and questioning why you allowed their love one to end their life in terrible pain."

It was a rough night for Nana, for sure. But at the ICU they were able to take her pain away, and she had a few hours to spend with her children and grandchildren. My cousin said "she was like our old Nana," because she even had her memory. My cousin's husband, who is one of the nicest people ever put on this planet, said that everyone was pretty somber and scared. "But your mom was amazing," he said. "We were so worried she wouldn't be able to get there in time. But she came in, dropped her coat on the floor, and went right to Nana and held her, and Nana lifted her arms around your mom and squeezed. And it was like the life went back into her. And your mom talked about spending last weekend together, and having lunch, and the reunion, and all the people she'd seen. And suddenly, it was like we weren't in a hospital at all."

That's all we can hope for. A long life, a loving family, and a gentle end free of pain and loneliness. I helped write my grandmother's obit, and marveled.... almost 96, married to the love of her life until he died, three children, six grandchildren, and 10 great-grandchildren. She lived to love all of us, as crazy as we all are. And we're all better people for it.