Apologies to the faithful few who've seen this post before. I've just been thinking of my Grandmother a lot lately. This was originally written in September of last year, and she died two months later.
If I Ever Leave This World Alive . . .
That's the title of a song by the band "Flogging Molly." And it was the phrase that kept running through my head today thinking about my Grandmother.
Up until a couple of years ago, Grandma lived rather independently. "Independent" if you ignore the fact that she could no longer drive, and required daily visits from my Mom or Dad to make sure she hadn't fallen, left the stove on, or neglected to take her numerous medications. I'd visit her on occasion and bring take-out Chinese food. She'd set the table beautifully and we'd sort out the various cartons, spooning out the contents and remarking on each other's choice of chicken chow mein (her favorite) or chicken with broccoli (mine). We'd talk about my job, or the kids, or trips she'd made years ago, or what was going on with other family members. We'd have second portions which both of us inevitably regretted minutes later. We shared our fortune cookies, and I'd usually have to read hers to her because the red ink on white was too little contrast for her eyes to easily see. She'd always make tea afterwards. Both of us really enjoyed those meals.
But it finally got too dangerous for her to live "independently" any longer, and the difficult decision was made to move her to a nursing home. She's 88 now, and her brain is leaving this world a whole lot faster than her body is. I went to visit her today. She recognizes me as a family member, but not the specific relationship. In fact, I think at times she believes she's younger than me. Today, she believes the nursing home is the school where she is a student. At other times, it's her place of employment. Most days, it's just "this place" and she's not quite sure anyone remembers that she is there. I always reassure her. "Yes, Grandma. We know exactly where you are. June [her daughter, my mother] knows where you are. She's away on vacation this week but she'll be back." That calms her for a bit.
I approached her today and as my face came into her view, she smiled broadly.
"Hi Honey! How are you? You look so nice. Can you come up and I'll make you some tea?" She gestures to her room, which is really only half hers. And with just a bed, a dresser, and chair in there, there's certainly no way to make tea.
"No thanks, Grandma. I'll just take this extra chair out in the hall and we can talk for a while."
She points at the chair and tells me "I made that, you know. I put it together."
I don't know why she says that about this chair every time. It's an ordinary wooden folding chair which I know for certain she didn't make or assemble. But she seems so proud of her work. I tell her it's beautiful and she's very talented.
She doesn't like to sit in the crowded main room, but prefers to sit at the perimeter watching the other chair-bound patients (excuse me, students) from her own chair. Mostly she watches silently. But lately she's gotten more upset with the others. She points to one woman and tells me in a hushed voice:
"That one. She borrowed my walker and now she won't give it back."
I said "Grandma, maybe she forgot where she put it?"
She laughs and waves her hand in the air. "Oh, it's my fault. I shouldn't have let her take it. Well, I won't do that again." And she giggles a little.
But sometimes the perceived faults or infractions of others bother her more. She got quite upset with another woman recently and actually dragged her out of her wheelchair to the ground. She tries to tell me about it today, pointing to the very real bruises up and down her arms. She remembers a scuffle, but believes it was "the four teachers, all men, who were trying to pull me down . . . to stop me . . . and I still have no idea why." I can't offer any possible explanation that will help her with this one.
An elderly man in a trucker's cap slowly approaches us, inching up the hall pulling his chair forward with shuffling slippered feet.
"Here comes the cowboy," Grandma says. "He's always on my trail. But I'm not interested."
I smile at her. As he passes and waves, I get the impression she might have blushed if her heart was strong enough to push a little more blood to her cheeks.
Eventually, I tell her I have to go, and she asks if I don't want to stay for supper? She offers to heat up some soup. And for a second, I consider running out to get Chinese food. But I know, according to the big white activity board in the hall, that her supper will be a turkey sandwich, with macaroni salad, and a pudding cup. I tell her thanks, but I really have to get home to feed the cats. She asks me to come back soon, and I promise that I will.
My Grandmother is, most days, not unhappy. She has happy moments. But I really don't want to live like that for any length of time. My friend Mary feels the same way. We have a loose agreement that someday, when we have outlived our respective spouses and significant others, she and I and a couple other women will live together. We'll share responsibilities to the best of our ability, and when the time comes when we are no longer happy most days, or when we are in too much pain, we will help each other slip to the other side. We will have agreed in advance on what method each of us prefers and whom, if anyone, to contact afterwards. What arrangements we want. We'll have all the details sorted out years in advance so when the time comes, it'll be easier on everyone.
I just hope, when that time does come, one of us will remember those details. Or where we wrote them down.
My poor old mom had dementia at the end, and it became overwhelming. She was so lonely because she had zero short-term memory and hence had no memory anyone had spent the day with her, or that I had just read to her. I'd read her favorite poetry, and within seconds it would be gone, and I'd read it again. Poor old gal. The end of life can be so sad.
Posted by: Bruce Small | Friday, August 12, 2005 at 10:12 PM