Death in Journal

Yesterday, DH and I drove down to see his Aunt, who is on her deathbed in hospice.
The trip was… unsettling. As I suppose, all close encounters with death are.
What I found most disturbing about the trip, however, was not his Aunt’s condition per-se, as she had been very sick for a number of decades before this last stint of experimental treatments, but how she was being treated and managed.
We arrived at the house, which is situated snugly among other homes in a very expensive neighborhood. The houses are so small and so closely packed that, I could only surmise that each parcel was trying to squeeze as much use of the incredibly overpriced and overtaxed space as they possibly could. Her house was not extravagant, but it had always had an air of quiet wealth. What little space she had was taken up with china cabinets, antique tables; a personal portrait over the mantle, and bona fide sail boat paraphernalia decorating the place.
When we walked in yesterday, I was shocked to find the small residence bare. Not a thing on the walls. The furniture had been removed or, perhaps, sold off. The only thing left in the living-room was Aunt’s hospital bed, a couch, a chair, and the television. With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I saw her.
She had been a vivacious, outspoken, sometimes even downright vicious person. Now, she was a skeletal figure laying stiffly and unconscious on a soft bed. I saw her, how her head drooped to one side in such a way that I knew her muscles, though wasted, were tight as a drum. Her entire figure was the picture of tension. It was as if her body had hardened around her.
I felt tears threatening, but the nurse and her friend were there speaking to me, drawing my attention away. I only wanted to see her, my husbands Aunt; I didn’t care about them. They kept trying to draw my conversation away by commenting and talking about my son. I tried to politely comment, although I suppose I came off as dismissing.
DH sat next to her awhile holding our son for her to see. I don’t know if she did. I honestly don’t know. Her eyes were open. But they couldn’t focus. And, like the rest of her, I feared that her eyes had hardened to such an extent that they no longer could. I stood there in silent despair. I looked at her, hoping, willing her to just look to her left. Our baby was right there!
The nurse prattled on like a badly tuned piano in high notes. “I’m so glad she got to see W-” (our baby) “it’s all she talks about! She is happy, I can tell. He is a happy baby, isn’t he? Oh, he looks like such a good baby!”
I ignored her, looking at Aunt. It was like I wanted to transfer some of my own life to her. It was like all I wanted was to will her to just wake up, just for a moment! I think I would have given her some of my life, then, if I could have. At that moment, it seemed to me the most important thing in the world. That she should have her last dying wish of seeing W.
Thinking back, I wondered… did this… happen to her? Or did she choose it?