On my grandfather
Today my grandfather had forgotten how to eat. He remembered chewing, and he remembered lifting a cup to his lips, but he had to be reminded how to swallow.
When we arrived, he wasn’t in his room, so we went to the dining room. We stand in the doorway to look for him. The room looks like it was decorated in the early eighties: horrible coral and sea foam colors, plastic tablecloths and floral wallpaper that doesn’t quite match. There are five tables in the middle of the room, for the patients who can still feed themselves, and near the walls are tables set up in a semi-circle, where an attend sits in the middle so he can feed one of the four patients sitting across from him, and then the next, and the next, in a line. It’s efficient.
“I don’t know who to look for,” Annie whispers to me.
All week I’ve been thinking about a short history lesson from my favorite lit professor, when he talked about how grandparents were sort of a new social invention of the Victorian era, created by modern medicine and improved quality of life. Perhaps this is just me being self-centered, but I think there’s a certain, significant bond you share with your grandparents that’s different than other relationships. Of course that could be just me blindly believing that because it’s like that for me, and most of my friends, it’s true for everyone. That might not be the case. I shouldn’t assume that because they have all ended up in the same place, equally dependent and with an equal future to welcome, it was the same road here.
From the doorway these grandparents all look the same. I have a difficult time picking my own grandfather out, and I’m ashamed when I think I recognize the back of a head but have to peer at the name on the wristband since he won’t turn around.
“You have visitors!” the nurse who had been sitting next to him says, her voice quite cheery.
My grandfather doesn’t turn around. I lay a hand on his shoulder and when he looks to see what it is, I smile. “I’m Kelly,” I say. “I’m Kirk’s daughter.” Last time I was there, he remembered my father, who looks distinctly the same as he did when he was eight months old.
My grandfather doesn’t make any sign of having heard, just stares at me for a while, maybe already having forgotten that I said anything, and then picks up his cup again and puts it back down without having swallowed.
Annie sits next to me, a tentative smile on her face. I want to tell him, This is Annie – she’s one of my best friends – she came with me today to see you – and I’m going to live with her next year and I thought I was done finding friends like her, and then I prayed for one in San Diego and she was there. You would really like her. He keeps chewing, doggedly, sometimes turning his head to see what’s going on but still chewing, making no reaction.
I say, brightly, “Your hands look good!” I mean that they aren’t shaking as much as they usually do. He must be on some kind of new medicine. He looks at me for a long time, then painfully slowly drops his gaze to his lap, where his hand is lying, and lifts it with visible effort, studying it as though he has never seen it before, and the gesture is so childlike, so exactly what I’ve seen in the little girl I take care of, that I’m blinded for a moment and have to jump up and get him a cup of water, anywhere that’s not right next to him.
They’ve thickened everything he drinks with something; the cup that I thought had water in it has the remnants of a milky, viscous substance and when I add water it makes an opaque, whitish liquid. They must have added things so he doesn’t spill as much.
My dear friend’s grandmother died this week, and I've barely been able to stop thinking about her and her family and how hard all this is for them. When I see her she is holding up exceptionally well, exhibiting a great deal of grace, but every so often comments slip through that remind me of all the things she's now facing: immutability, eternity, uncertainty and a hell of a lot of pain. The grandmother of another friend, who I care about very deeply, is dying now. My friend was here a little while ago, and I ached for him when he told me what was going on – calmly, cut off, the way he is when something’s serious. “I’m sorry,” I said, about four times, the last as he was leaving, and he looked at me, tired, and said, “You said that already.” And I did. The thing is, it isn’t even what I wanted to say to him. I don’t know what I wanted to say, but it wasn’t anything nearly as empty as that. If words had more power I would be a better person.
In my grandfather’s room today, my words are equally empty. Remember Kirk? I ask. That’s my father. Your son. Your oldest son. I say, Last summer around this time we went to go see the place where you got married. Remember that? It was really beautiful, up in Seattle. He makes no sign of having heard and I smile, embarrassed, not sure why I keep trying.
“Nice try,” Annie whispers - slightly wryly but she's being kind, not sarcastic. I don’t want her to see me cry, and I don’t want him, to, either – I don’t know what he’d make of it – so we leave early. Someone will be there soon, to sit with him; in the meanwhile, the nurses and the attendants are there. They’ll give him anything he needs.
When we arrived, he wasn’t in his room, so we went to the dining room. We stand in the doorway to look for him. The room looks like it was decorated in the early eighties: horrible coral and sea foam colors, plastic tablecloths and floral wallpaper that doesn’t quite match. There are five tables in the middle of the room, for the patients who can still feed themselves, and near the walls are tables set up in a semi-circle, where an attend sits in the middle so he can feed one of the four patients sitting across from him, and then the next, and the next, in a line. It’s efficient.
“I don’t know who to look for,” Annie whispers to me.
All week I’ve been thinking about a short history lesson from my favorite lit professor, when he talked about how grandparents were sort of a new social invention of the Victorian era, created by modern medicine and improved quality of life. Perhaps this is just me being self-centered, but I think there’s a certain, significant bond you share with your grandparents that’s different than other relationships. Of course that could be just me blindly believing that because it’s like that for me, and most of my friends, it’s true for everyone. That might not be the case. I shouldn’t assume that because they have all ended up in the same place, equally dependent and with an equal future to welcome, it was the same road here.
From the doorway these grandparents all look the same. I have a difficult time picking my own grandfather out, and I’m ashamed when I think I recognize the back of a head but have to peer at the name on the wristband since he won’t turn around.
“You have visitors!” the nurse who had been sitting next to him says, her voice quite cheery.
My grandfather doesn’t turn around. I lay a hand on his shoulder and when he looks to see what it is, I smile. “I’m Kelly,” I say. “I’m Kirk’s daughter.” Last time I was there, he remembered my father, who looks distinctly the same as he did when he was eight months old.
My grandfather doesn’t make any sign of having heard, just stares at me for a while, maybe already having forgotten that I said anything, and then picks up his cup again and puts it back down without having swallowed.
Annie sits next to me, a tentative smile on her face. I want to tell him, This is Annie – she’s one of my best friends – she came with me today to see you – and I’m going to live with her next year and I thought I was done finding friends like her, and then I prayed for one in San Diego and she was there. You would really like her. He keeps chewing, doggedly, sometimes turning his head to see what’s going on but still chewing, making no reaction.
I say, brightly, “Your hands look good!” I mean that they aren’t shaking as much as they usually do. He must be on some kind of new medicine. He looks at me for a long time, then painfully slowly drops his gaze to his lap, where his hand is lying, and lifts it with visible effort, studying it as though he has never seen it before, and the gesture is so childlike, so exactly what I’ve seen in the little girl I take care of, that I’m blinded for a moment and have to jump up and get him a cup of water, anywhere that’s not right next to him.
They’ve thickened everything he drinks with something; the cup that I thought had water in it has the remnants of a milky, viscous substance and when I add water it makes an opaque, whitish liquid. They must have added things so he doesn’t spill as much.
My dear friend’s grandmother died this week, and I've barely been able to stop thinking about her and her family and how hard all this is for them. When I see her she is holding up exceptionally well, exhibiting a great deal of grace, but every so often comments slip through that remind me of all the things she's now facing: immutability, eternity, uncertainty and a hell of a lot of pain. The grandmother of another friend, who I care about very deeply, is dying now. My friend was here a little while ago, and I ached for him when he told me what was going on – calmly, cut off, the way he is when something’s serious. “I’m sorry,” I said, about four times, the last as he was leaving, and he looked at me, tired, and said, “You said that already.” And I did. The thing is, it isn’t even what I wanted to say to him. I don’t know what I wanted to say, but it wasn’t anything nearly as empty as that. If words had more power I would be a better person.
In my grandfather’s room today, my words are equally empty. Remember Kirk? I ask. That’s my father. Your son. Your oldest son. I say, Last summer around this time we went to go see the place where you got married. Remember that? It was really beautiful, up in Seattle. He makes no sign of having heard and I smile, embarrassed, not sure why I keep trying.
“Nice try,” Annie whispers - slightly wryly but she's being kind, not sarcastic. I don’t want her to see me cry, and I don’t want him, to, either – I don’t know what he’d make of it – so we leave early. Someone will be there soon, to sit with him; in the meanwhile, the nurses and the attendants are there. They’ll give him anything he needs.
posted by Kelly at
1:19 PM
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