1. “A Bushel and a Peck” – A Personal Narrative
A Bushel and a Peck
“I love you, a bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck”. The melody still plays in
my head like an old familiar tune. As a child, she sang that song to me often, gently
lulling me to sleep at night or comforting me when I felt a bit under the weather. I didn’t
realize, then, what this quirky little song would come to mean to me. For nineteen years
she and I sang this song together and, on January 20, 2001, it was the last time I would
ever share that song with my grandmother. Her name was Nancy, which, according to
various baby name books, means “Grace”. I sat next to her on that dreary Monday
afternoon. Outside her window were clouds that filled the sky in an endless sea of gray.
She was lying uncomfortably in the rigid hospital bed with both hands gripping the cold
metal rails that were fixed on either side. It was drafty and cool in her narrow room which
exasperated the arthritis that plagued every joint in her plump body. The nurse, a sweet,
kindhearted young woman named Katie, had given my grandma some extra blankets to
help keep her warm. The blankets were soft and cozy, and felt toasty, as if they had just
been pulled from an extended cycle in the clothes dryer. I gently placed three of the
blankets over her body and pulled them up to her bosom to keep her warm. She had been
admitted to Mary Immaculate Hospital only two days earlier, her chief complaints were
severe shortness of breath, and an incessant cough that she had had for more than six
months.
As my gaze swiveled across the room I couldn’t help but notice how stark and uninviting
it was. The walls were a crisp, winter white, each adorned with a wooden crucifix
hanging from the middle of it. I suppose the elements of the catholic church were
strategically placed with the intention of being a constant reminder that God is with you,
to watch over and protect you. On this day, however, I wasn’t comforted, and those
crucifixes only increased the feeling of impending doom which had seated itself in the pit
of my stomach. The persistent sound of life saving machines didn’t aid in relieving the
uneasy feeling, either. To the right of her bed was a monitor that displayed jagged lines
which represented the beating of her heart. It flashed in the color of neon green and
steadily beeped as if it were eerily singing the song of life. Next to the heart monitor was
a ventilation system that hissed harshly as it forced oxygen into the tubes of her nose. I
glanced up and noticed that, in the corner, hanging on silver, metal brackets was a
television that looked as if it had come from the stone age. Beside my grandma laid a
hard plastic box that housed the television remote with buttons that allowed for volume
control and changing the station. It was 12:30 and, like clockwork, I changed the channel
to CBS. For as long as I can remember, my grandma had watched the network’s soap
operas, probably never missing one single episode. In an effort to make her feel at home I
made sure channel three was displayed on that ancient T.V..
Not long after Victor Newman made his daily appearance on “The Young and the
Restless” I heard a clanging in the hallway outside her room. It was the sound of the
cafeteria worker methodically delivering lunch to each patient. I opened the door for him
and he brought in a large, covered tray that held the delicious hospital food we have all
come to know, and love. My grandma woke from her slumber when she smelled the
musty aroma of the ugly, edible surprise that was waiting for her under the cover of the

2. tray. She tried to tell me something but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. Her
voice was inaudible and was barely louder than a whisper. She coughed and gasped for
air with each attempted breath. “Just try to relax, Grams. I’ll help you”. With a single tear
streaming down her face, she quietly tried to reply, “I just want to go home”. With
feigned reassurance in my voice, and a clear lack of confidence, I assured her that she’d
be home before she knew it. Funny, at the time, I didn’t realize how true that statement
would be.
My concern for her was growing with each passing minute and, with shaky hands and a
worried heart, I tried to help her eat lunch. Under the dome was a small bowl of chicken
broth, a bowl of pineapple Jell-o, and a caffeine-free ginger ale. I tore open the clear
wrapper that surrounded the plastic spoon and tried to convince my stubborn grandma
that it wasn’t going to taste that bad. A sweet smile stretched across her face, giving
notice to the pudgy, rosy roundness of her cheeks. It was the first smile I’d seen in two
days and I was happy to witness it. She was smiling because, according to her, I was “full
of it”. She knew it would taste terrible and she knew that I’d make her eat it, anyway. The
plastic spoon was thin and floppy and couldn’t quite hold anything of substance. I
scooped the spoon through the brown, murky chicken broth and slowly brought it up to
her lips, which were now dry and cracked. It was impossible for her to eat because, with
each breath she would cough, and the chicken broth would fly off the spoon in a violent
spatter. I tried, and tried, but to no avail. Moving on to the pineapple Jell-o, I had figured
this one would be easier, but that, too, fell off the spoon with a rubbery plop. Full of
frustration, and an empty stomach, my grandma seemed to have given up. This time, as
she struggled breathlessly to speak, her words shattered my soul. She repeated, over and
over, “Mitz, just take me home. I want to go home.”. In that moment, seeing her
withering away with a fierce swiftness, I knew she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Exhausted and in terrible pain from the illness that was apparently ripping her away, she
closed her eyes and drifted off into what appeared to be a restful slumber. At first, I was
thankful that she was sleeping and hopeful that, in her rest, she would find solace from
the pain. The stillness of the moment prompted me to take note of my grandmother and
all of her sixty five years of glory. Her hair, the color of a perfect pearl, was usually in its
place but, today, was stuck down flat to her head. Although her eyes were closed, I
imagined them in my mind, and could picture them with clarity. They were a marbled
mix of emerald green and chestnut brown and always had a sparkle of youth that shined
through. I reached down to grab her wrinkled hand, which was painted with age spots and
dark purple veins, and I didn’t let go.
The doctor was in now to examine her condition. His icy hands touched her arm as he felt
for her radial pulse which had become weak and thready. He poked and prodded my
grandma and I noticed that, as he tried to stimulate her senses, she was unresponsive.
Worry filled my heart and soul as I tried to make sense of it all. This was happening so
fast and I was sorely unprepared for the news I was about to receive. Dr. Kearns
delivered the news as gently as possible, telling me that she had slipped into a coma, and
time wasn’t on her side. My emotions were like a swirling tornado as I tried to
comprehend the situation. Question after question, I finally learned that she had gone into
septic shock, and the likelihood of her recovering was almost non-existent. I knew my
mother and extended family members would be arriving soon and I wasn’t quite sure
what to do next. I thanked the doctor and asked that he allow me time to be alone with

3. my grandma. I was unable to control my tears as they rushed from my eyes like the
flowing warm-water stream that I used to visit with my grandma and family on our
Sunday drives. Memories, both happy and sad, rushed into my mind at warp speed. I
didn’t know what to say or what I could do to help this desperate situation. Suddenly, it
dawned on me.
I climbed onto the bed and cuddled up against my grandmother, and could feel her
energy, which was as warm and welcoming as it had ever been. I placed my head on her
shoulder and thought about that silly song she sang to me as a child. Through a broken
voice and with all the love and strength I could muster, I sang to her. “I love you a bushel
and a peck! A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck, and a barrel and a heap! A
barrel and a heap and I’m talking in my sleep about you. Because I love you! A bushel
and a peck! You bet your pretty neck, I do”.
Soon after, everyone that adored my grandma had arrived and was surrounding her with
their loving presence. Her breathing had become more labored now and her skin had
turned the color of ash. One by one, my family members took turns saying their
goodbyes, whispering the last words she’d ever hear, into her ear. The room was dark
except for a single beam of light that shined down on her face. It was as if the light of
God was coming down to summon her home. I could hear the sniffles and muffled cries
of my loved ones. My uncle, whose masculinity seemed to be softened by the tears
streaming down his face, grasped his wife’s hand as they hung their heads and wept. I
glanced at my mother and could see the anguish on her face. It was agonizing for me to
witness her desperation as she inwardly hoped for a heavenly miracle that would bring
my grandma back to health, back to life. It was time now and, through my hysterical
crying, I leaned down to kiss my grandma on her cheek one last time. As the angels came
to carry her away I whispered in her ear,“A bushel and a peck, grandma. You’re going
home”.