Last Rites

Nannie Edna couldn't accept that her dying wish was borderline
psychopathic. "But it's what I want!" she rasped through her
breathing apparatus. We tried suggesting more conventional
alternatives (swimming with dolphins, a hot air balloon ride,
a video call with Michael Ball) but she wasn't interested.
She wanted to dangle her great-grandson from her apartment
window. "By the ankle!" she kept saying, as if we might agree
to let her dangle him by the arm and accidentally disappoint her.
When we said no, she went through the five stages of grief.
First, she was shocked, mouth open. "But I'm dying..." Then
she got angry. "You don't trust me! You've never trusted me."
Then she lifted up her heavy handbag and held it in the air,
shaking, for a good five minutes. "See?" she said, bargaining,
"I wouldn't drop him." We didn't know what to say. Tears ran
sideways down her face. Finally, she closed her eyes. "My own
family believes I am capable of dropping a new-born baby from
a twelve-storey building and, deep down, I suppose, I've always
known this about myself" she said, slipping away.