ISABELLE SILBERY: "I flew across the world to say goodbye to my grandma Emmie. I'll never regret it."

While enjoying our summer family holiday in France, Mum had returned to Melbourne and was keeping me updated on Emmie.

She had a bad fall and fractured two ribs and her wrist. This was awful to hear. It made me sick to think she was suffering that way. Then things escalated within 24 hours. Another fall and then another. 

I left my husband and baby Ruby in Europe with my in-laws, and flew home with my eldest child.

I arrived jet-lagged and not ready for what was about to happen.

Emmie had survived a triple bypass, COVID and pneumonia. Over the years, when the doubts crept into my head during those challenges that it may be her time, she always pulled through.

That's what she did. She was a fighter. Determined to live life. And to the fullest. Always laughing, being cheeky and seeing the bright side. She never complained, despite all the trauma she had suffered in her life.

Not just physical trauma but emotional ones too, which I discovered co-writing our memoir together, Out Of The Box.

Isabelle and her beloved grandma Emmie. Image: Instagram.

She was left an orphan at the age of nine and separated from her six older siblings.

She wrote in our book that she never got to say goodbye to her dying mother. Her Auntie Ruby, who saved her from an orphanage, took her in. Ruby was there as Emmie's mum was dying and recalls her saying, "Take care of my baby won't you."

My baby Ruby is named after her — the auntie that gave Emmie a chance in life. 

Later on, her husband — father of her children and love of her life — left her for another woman, leaving her broken and nearly on the street.

But Emmie rebuilt her life, an inner strength I feel was passed on to both my mother and me. The strength to rebuild when the life you thought you had is taken from you.

But here I was, fresh off the plane with not much inner strength and home to the cold chills of Melbourne and the reality of life. I felt my heart tearing in two directions.

My youngest baby Ruby, needed me on the other side of the world, but the eldest, the matriarch of my family, was also in need. As we walked into her room, Mum said to me, 'I'm warning you, it's going to be a shock."

And it was. She was battered and bruised, thin and motionless on oxygen. 

She opened her eyes and realised it was me. "Oh you're here," she said and smiled. The nurse came in with her dinner. She hadn't been eating so Mum and I encouraged her.

As she struggled to position her lips open, eyes closed, the nurse gently fed her soup. I watched from the end of the bed and felt a great sense of guilt. Spoonful after spoonful. 

I should be feeding her. Why am I not feeding her? Am I scared she'll choke? But she fed me in my high chair countless times. She was patient, encouraging and nurturing. I could have choked too as a baby, but she fed me.

I froze. I guess I was in shock to see her so helpless. Vulnerable, like a child.

After dinner, she struggled to get comfortable. She winced in pain at every movement. I asked her if she wanted more (more soup) and she replied, "Morphine? Yes, whatever will help me."

I suddenly moved from shock to action. This was not right. Our Emmie didn't deserve this.

If it were me, I would want a big shot of ketamine and to float away. She was 96 and in pain. Why euthanasia is not legal in Australia is a crime. It's cruel and I felt angry. 

We spoke to the doctors and agreed they would administer end-of-life medication — the morphine, as she requested. 

I played her favourite Dolly Parton song, 'Islands in the Stream', on loud so she could hear. A song we used to sing together when I had sleepovers at her place as a kid. She opened her eyes and I knew she knew. As the song finished, she let out a sigh and said, "I'm hanging up now."

Mum and I looked at each other and chuckled through tears. She was ready to hang up. 

"I said goodbye, and she kissed me multiple times, not wanting to let go." Image: Instagram.

I said goodbye, and she kissed me multiple times, not wanting to let go. 

At home, I had a big cry, followed by a shower and getting into my PJs.

But lying in bed with jet-lag in an empty house, something just didn't feel right. I bolted up, threw on a jacket to hide my PJs, took my pillow and got into the car.

Whether it was guilt, or an overwhelming pull that it was my turn to look after her the way she had for me, I don't know, but I followed my heart.

I walked into the aged care home in the middle of their night shift with confidence. No one was going to stop me. They looked at me and simply nodded. 

Creeping into her room, I saw her lying there snoring peacefully, with no oxygen machine. I slid into bed next to her and wrapped my arms around her skeletal body. 

I knew she wouldn't be able to hear me, so I used touch. Stroking her hand and forehead. Suddenly all these memories came flooding back.

I couldn't control them — like a filing cabinet tipped over. Her walking me to school, sitting by the electric heater sipping Milo. Playing Dolly Parton on her tape player and dancing around the lounge room.

I imagined her body birthing her children, two of which, were stillbirths. I imagined her as a little orphan girl, scared of the unknown. A woman, who had loved, laughed, endured heartache and whose body was slowly dying in my arms.

I looked up at the photo of her mother above her bed. "I'm taking care of your baby now," I assured her. 

Generations of the Silbery family have taken care of each other. Image: Instagram.

I fell asleep spooning my beloved grandma and woke in the early hours of the next morning. Her breathing was laboured and croaky. I kissed her forehead, put my coat on and drove home.

Mum's text pinged a few hours later, "She's gone Darling."

Relief washed over me — she let go. She was safe, comfortable and loved. Did she wait for me? I'll never know. 

I'm thankful I pushed through my weird guilty feeling. I'm reassured that I will not regret looking like a weirdo rocking up in the middle of the night at the aged care home. I'm thankful that I went to sleep with her as she succumbed to a well-deserved rest.

She may have hung up, but I know that our connection will stay very much alive through generations to come. 

Featured image: Instagram/isabellesilbery.