I Like You

My grandma turns ninety-six today, and we gathered in the nursing home yesterday to celebrate. I was just telling Jim: I love my mom's people. They're so chill. Just really nice people. They don't much get their feathers ruffled, and if they do, it's in secret. They stay out of each other's business and avoid high drama. They love each other well, I think.

I'd looked forward to seeing the family but hadn't held high expectations in terms of my interaction with Grandma. It's easier that way. It's been over five years since I've heard her speak my name, and anymore, seems like I understand her words but not necessarily how they're supposed to be working together. I want to blow a whistle at them and demand they get back in line.

We keep losing her in bits, but I love her, so I go. And isn't ninety-six an impressive number?

I knelt beside her with my low expectations yesterday, and the most surprising thing happened: she leaned over the side of her wheelchair and, with great passion, kissed me over and over again on the forehead. Then she sat up a little, looked me in the eyes, and said: "I like you."

Through my tears, I choked out: "You do? I like you, too!"

"Then we're for each other," she said and descended a second time upon my forehead with her rapid-fire kisses.

What I Want to Tell Grandma

I thought I was done processing my last visit with Grandma, and maybe I was, but then I made blueberry pancakes for six children, Sunday morning. Five of them gathered happily around the dining room table (although I guess I shouldn't speak for Samwise, who pretty much always gets sandwiched between the little girls), and Chippy ate in the johnny jump-up, bouncing between bites of a dry, blueberry pancake.

An hour or so later, after the choir special, I settled into the pew between Jim and Cade. My stomach commenced to growling loudly, which cracked Cade up but reminded me of Grandma; she used to tell how--when her kids were growing up--she'd come home from church nearly every Sunday with a rip-roaring headache. She said she'd realized many years after the fact (having finally been given some peace and quiet and time to think) that she'd pretty well always skipped breakfast, herself, on Sunday mornings, having been caught up in getting everyone else fed and out the door.

Sitting in church, listening to my stomach, realizing I'd forgotten to eat...I felt so close to her.

When Andrea and I visited, last month, she asked Grandma how many children she had, and Grandma said: "Two. Two was enough. He said two was enough. And that was alright." She had seven children and still does.

Andrea asked: "What are their names?"

Grandma said: "Richard and Mary Ellen." Later, recounting the story to Uncle Ronnie and Aunt Carolyn, we all laughed because--if what Grandma had said were true--none of us would've made it into the world, let alone the room.

The seven-kids thing was the part of Grandma that felt mysterious to me, back before her Alzheimer's and my little kids. I'd try to imagine it and couldn't. It didn't appeal to me at all; I'll tell you that. But somehow, I hit this tipping point after #4. (I was leaning hard after #3.) Extra kids make things seem easier, mysteriously, so I've taken to borrowing them and dreaming of a full-sized van. I feel deeply satisfied, cheerful, when my minivan is crammed full and the log cabin buzzes and rattles with the energy of my children, plus extras. Strangest thing.

I hardly recognize myself, sometimes, and I want to tell Grandma. I want to tell her I understand her better, now, than I ever have: how my proudest moments have become the ones in which Mom says I remind her of Grandma.

I want to thank Grandma for having so many children because #6 is my mom, and #7 (Mary Ellen) has impacted my life like precious few others.

So many things I want to say to Grandma, and no one else will do.

Why I Go

A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others.

―L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

She has eighteen grandchildren (I don't even know how many great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren), but there was a time when she answered the phone with a question, and when I said, "Hi, Grandma," she knew my voice from all the others.

And I feel sure: it wasn't that I was oh-so special but that, to her, each of us was. She had this way--when she was wholly herself--of making us feel known. She wrote us letter after letter; she was, hands down, everyone's best pen pal. She loved to talk to us on the phone, across the dining room table, on the porch swing, in the living room, everywhere. She and I fell asleep, many times, talking in the dark.

For nearly thirty years, her favorite story to tell of me was that--when she went to take my photo on my first day of kindergarten--I threw some kind of fit. Her favorite story to tell of Andrea involved Andrea's being a rotten teenager, but it didn't matter: doesn't.

(Andrea cried, a few weeks ago, when she pulled one of Grandma's owl cups from my cupboard. How clandestine the grief.)

It hurts to become unknown to someone who knew you from your beginning and loved you through your bad. For years, I felt bitterly disappointed after every visit, having prayed for Grandma to know me one more time. I let go of that hope after the Lord, in His mercy, allowed a dream. I still pray for good visits, also for my recovery from them; even when they're good, they're hard.

She doesn't know who I am, and no sooner do her visitors leave than she forgets she had them. But I watch her light up for my children and believe it matters that we're there. My younger children have never met so much of her, but I hope--after the last bit of her soul flies to the Lord--they'll remember her smile, her embrace.

And I guess I hope that--even as I stroke her arm or kiss her forehead--the most of her looks down, already, from that better and brighter place. I hope she knows me in real time: speaks my name just out of earshot. I hope she waits for me there even as we sit together, here.

Photo by Emmanuel Artis. Editing mine.

My Best Christmas Gift

We found Grandma in the dining room and wheeled her back, a little, from the others. So many others. One woman--and seems like every adult home has one--spoke and laughed in a strange voice, manlier than a man's. Another spoke on auto-repeat. A third joined us back under the Christmas tree and stood over us, swaying. She nodded toward Grandma and said: "She's not an individual, yet," also something about its being a long Friday. It was Tuesday, but she never stopped smiling. I could've talked to her all day.

Grandma didn't know us, and when I told her I was Sherry's daughter, it didn't seem to register. She was happy to see us, though, and hold the baby; I could hardly wait to lie him in her arms. "How... How... How...," she said, and I knew the question for which she was grasping but forced myself to wait her out. Finally, she asked: "What's the age of the child?"

"Five weeks," I told her.

"He's really cute," she said. "I had them. Boys and girls." Later, in her room, she looked at Clementine and said: "Pretty hair. I used to have hair like that." And she did; I've seen pictures of her long curls. Those were the only two things she said, while we were together, that proved she remembered something of who she used to be.

When I hugged and kissed her goodbye, I wondered if it were for the last time, and it might've hurt me. Except I'd wondered the same thing so many times before and, suddenly, all I could see was an opened gift: how she's 94, and I'm 38, and how--even if she doesn't remember it--we've had so much time. How she's held and loved, now, all of my babies.

"Goodbye, Grandma B.," my two-year-old volunteered. "I love you, Grandma B."

And Grandma smiled and said to the wee, red-headed stranger: "I love you, too."  

Gift.

**A special thank you to my friend Sharon Pleasants, who, with all the love in her heart, gave me two (more) days of her life. I couldn't have made the trip without her. Thanks, also, to Uncle Ronnie and Aunt Carolyn, who welcomed my crazy tribe in and gave us beds...and pancakes.

Growing Children

The baby hadn't gotten her nap out, and she cried nearly the whole time. She wanted to run in the road. She wanted to jump in the stream. What she did not want to do was garden. I didn't blame her; the sun was blazing overhead. I tried to slip her sweater off her shoulders, which angered her even more.

Can you see it? Look carefully.

Never mind; I know you can't. At this point, I can't even prove it unless I pull in eye witnesses.

When my children look back at my photos, they will remember only this: we gardened on a beautiful day, once, with our papaw.

So I submit to you: sometimes the truth--especially the whole truth--doesn't matter. Children are unpredictable. Very often, they're also a pain in the hiney butt. I wonder, sometimes, why I seem to be collecting them.

Then I remember a millisecond of panic at the lake, last summer, when I counted and came up one short. They were all there, but they weren't, so I whispered: "Just one more, Lord, please."

I don't have children because they're cute and fun; sometimes they are, but sometimes they're really not. I have children because I feel called to grow them.

Whatever I do or don't, at any given moment, my children are as apt to disappoint as to delight. Still, I can't help but believe: what matters, most, is that my family is complete and together. And I think that will matter most even if I forget the stories behind the pictures...even if, God forbid, I forget the very people in them.

Book Review: Still Alice

A few years ago, my girl Christy bought me a copy of Still Alice by Lisa Genova. I knew about the novel's protagonist Alice having Alzheimer's disease and put off reading the book for the same reason Christy bought it for me: my grandma has Alzheimer's disease, and I don't always handle it well.

I picked up Still Alice the other night, though, and devoured it in one sitting. Great read. The Harvard-educated Genova has a doctorate in neuroscience and weaves a thoroughly believable tale. It's genius, really: she writes from a third-person point of view (and I guess, realistically: the first-person POV of an Alzheimer's patient would require writing the same sentence over and over) but manages to focus almost entirely on Alice's perspective as the disease steals her mind.

Having witnessed the progression of Alzheimer's disease, I'll say: Genova writes its stages spot on, and--for that reason, also her incorporation of scientific facts and research--I consider this book an educational tool. I will say that (in order to keep the ball rolling) she took Alice down fairly quickly, and those of us who have loved ones with the disease know: it doesn't always (if ever) work that way. The slow progression of the disease (while, in many cases, the body continues to function well) can easily be its most challenging aspect.

My only other criticism of the novel is purely personal: the most tragic thing about Alice's diagnosis--because of who Alice is, a professor of psychology at Harvard--is the loss of her abilities to work: not the devastation of her family. She and her husband retain, clearly, a high degree of admiration and respect for one another, but the stale quality of their marriage precedes Alice's diagnosis. Their three children are grown, and, for the most part, Genova doesn't show us their pain, although Alice's historically troubled relationship with the youngest child yields the two most touching scenes in the novel.

Dream of Grandma

Grandma, Clementine, and Mom. 2009.

She came to me in a dream, my grandma. I should've been with her, that day, but I hadn't wanted Charleigh to pass on the croup.

The pediatrician had asked: "Maybe just keep Charleigh from breathing on your grandma?" I had looked at her and shaken my head with sadness. Charleigh's breathing on Grandma had been pretty much the whole point.

So I didn't go to Grandma, but Grandma came to me.

In my dream, she looked into my eyes and said: "There's something wrong with my mind." Then she said it again: "There's something wrong with my mind, and I can't remember things, but bring your children to me, anyway. I can talk to them about what's happening right now.

"I can't remember who you are," she continued, "But you love Jesus, don't you?"

I nodded, grabbed her, sobbed into her shoulder: "I do! I do love Jesus! I love Him so much!"

And patting my back, she said: "Then we're headed to a better place, and I will know you, when we get there."

The Saint

Sometimes the saints don't march in; sometimes they shuffle.

This one struggled, a little, in walking a straight line; in articulating a thought; in answering a question; in rising from the couch. She sank into the cushions and slept through the conversating.

When it came time, we all scooched in close, bowed our heads. I rested my hand on her leg.

She opened our praying and breathed out praise in a perfect circle, and everything made sense, suddenly: not only her words, but everything about my all day.

I understood why my phone had stopped accepting inbound calls.

I understood why the washing-machine repairman had arrived early:

 at the top, left corner of his time frame.

I understood why a friend had not been able to meet me.

I understood why I'd picked up (for once) every, single thing off the floor.

I understood why my babies had drifted off in their cribs.

God had intended to send a saint

 to pray, here, within these log walls.

And I could feel His drawing close: almost see the tipping of His head, the inclining of His ear. I could scarcely breathe; I knew it was just for me as she became everyone I've ever loved and watched ascend, with victory, to Jesus.

I opened my door, and God sent a saint shuffling in.

In this room, on my sofa, she became as much a miracle as any.

I'm Sherry's Daughter.

In three days' time, I'd visited twenty-seven relatives in my extended family.  Fourteen (including Grandma) on Mom's side, thirteen on Dad's.  Twenty-seven: only a small percentage of those in my extended family, but I'd run out of time.  I'd enjoyed every moment but didn't feel satisfied.

I stopped at the assisted-living facility on my way out of town.

Her door was closed, her room dark.  She was sleeping on her side under a blue blanket.  I didn't think of turning on the light, of getting her up, of helping her dress. 

I climbed into bed with her.  I didn't consider I might frighten her.  I can't say why, only that spooning her seemed the right thing to do.  I made my voice like butter and honey and said, "Hi, Grandma.  I'm Sherry's daughter."

"What're you going to do?" she asked.

"I'm going to lie beside you," I answered, "and talk to you, and rub your arm."

"Well," she said.  "I guess that's alright."

I talked to her about the cool air outside and cooed what a perfect morning to linger in bed.  I reminded her, "I'm Sherry's daughter," and rubbed her arm.  I told her about my other grandma and how the two of them had been best friends.  I spoke of their adventures.  I reminded her, "I'm Sherry's daughter."  (I rubbed her arm.)  I told her she'd been my best pen pal, that I miss her letters. 

"I used to like to write letters," she said.  "But I haven't written them for a long time."

"I know," I agreed, "I stopped writing to you after you stopped writing to me.  We should write to each other, again."

"Yes," she nodded, "We should."

I reminded her, "I'm Sherry's daughter," and I rubbed her arm.

I told her she'd taken me to Vacation Bible School and church: that she'd helped me find Jesus. 

"Yes," she said, "Mother made sure we went to church from a young age."

I reminded her, "I'm Sherry's daughter.  I loved staying with you, going places with you."

"I always have been a person who likes being with other people," she said.  I rubbed her arm.

A nurse opened the door, turned on the light.  "Oh!" she exclaimed, and she smiled at me lying with Grandma in the same bed into which I couldn't scramble up, as a child.

"I just wanted to lie with her awhile," I explained.

"That's alright," she said.  "Are you Joyce's daughter?"

"No.  Sherry's," I answered.

She smiled again.  "I should've guessed.  Sherry likes to crawl in bed with Mildred, too."

Those were the words, at last, to break me.  Maybe because I'd said to Grandma over and over about being Mom's daughter (all the while hoping for something of Mom in me), and the nurse believed, acknowledged, saw it.

I still don't know exactly what I'm trying to say, here.  Something about Grandma's being so much gone.  Something about loving her enough that I want to lie next to her--though she doesn't know me--and hold onto what remains.  Something about longing for my children and grandchildren to love me enough that they would (will?) do the same. 

Because I always have been a person who likes being with other people.

Something about finding (on the bright, flip side of what hurts so very much) peace, satisfaction, and the thing for which I'd gone seeking.

Getting Yelled at by Grandma

I find it ironic that--just hours before my grandma yelled at me for the first (and only) time--I had taken a photo of a billboard for the Milton Hershey school: "Where Kisses Make Dreams Come True."  Jim, Cade, and I had spent the day at Hershey Park with my Aunt Ellie and her family, who had moved into the downstairs apartment of Grandma's house in order to keep an eye on her.  We returned from Hershey Park to find Grandma had forgotten that my family and I were staying with her in her upstairs apartment; she had locked us out.  We called and woke her up, and she came to the door yelling: "I'm so mad I could just spit!"

I was devastated.  This was in the first half of 2008.  On my next trip north, in early 2009, Grandma had relocated to an assisted-living facility.  I was pregnant with Clementine: miserable with the weight of her and sick from gestational diabetes.  I stayed at Grandma's house (where my mom and her sisters were cleaning out cupboards), and I couldn't get Jim's truck up her icy hill; my Uncle Danny had to come back and assist.  I have these random, vivid memories of checking my blood sugar outside the assisted-living facility, of barely managing to hold it together when--for the first time--it was clear that Grandma didn't know me, of bawling my eyes out when I climbed back into the freezing-cold truck, of comfort bingeing on a Filet-O-Fish and french fries from McDonald's on the drive home and subsequently feeling my sickest, yet: like I might just slip into a diabetic coma.

It's interesting to me how a hundred people can know one person and each love her for different reasons.  The grandma I grew up knowing was very authentic and comfortable with herself.  Nothing tended to go perfectly for her; things broke, tore, and caught on fire, and the animals always seemed to break loose when she was around.  But she always just kind of laughed through it, and--I guess after raising seven kids--she'd become this person who really didn't give much of a rip about anything unimportant.  She didn't wear make-up, bother much with her hair, or wear dressy clothes or shoes.  She was a decent housekeeper, but she didn't care if everything was put away just so, and she didn't seem to mind a little dust, especially on the high shelves.  She loved Grandad but found him irritating, often, and didn't mind his knowing it.  She was never a morning person.  She talked frankly on all subjects (including taboo ones) and especially enjoyed reminiscing about family experiences, which she remembered in great detail.  She loved to write letters, talk on the phone, embroider and sew for others, and make hospital and nursing-home visits.  She wasn't the best cook in the world, but she made killer cheesy eggs.  She went to church.  She loved all people, especially babies and children.  She ran around with my other grandma.  She liked me for exactly who I was. 

I am so disappointed that Alzheimer's Disease is stealing Grandma from me, bit by bit.  None of us lives forever, and she's ninety-two; still, I hate losing her.  I sit with her and try not to cry when I tell her: "I remember brushing your hair when I was a little girl, before you cut it short," or, "I remember staying the night and falling asleep talking to you in the dark." (This happened over and over, even after Cade was born.)  It rips my heart out to have become a stranger to this person who really, really knew me.  But I am drawn to her like a moth to a flame because--although I have been completely erased from her memory--she still loves Jesus and all people, especially babies and children.  I am drawn to her because there are bittersweet lessons to be learned at her side.  They involve being hospitable to strangers (some of whom, mysteriously, seem to know her?)...also how Jesus is unforgettable for so much longer than certain relatives and friends, even the ones she bathed and took to Vacation Bible School.  So I make the trip when I can (even though it wrecks me, inside, for weeks afterward), and I say things like: "I remember digging through your pocketbook during church."

She raises her eyebrows and asks: "Oh, really? What was in there?"

I shrug and answer: "Chewing gum.  Peppermints.  Kleenex."

She says: "Well, there probably wasn't much money in there.  I never had much of that."

And I think: no.  But you had so much and gave so much, and I love you more than I could ever say, and--even though you're right here beside me--I miss you like crazy.

Grandma B. with Aunt Joyce, Uncle Ronnie, Uncle Danny, and Uncle Richard. This was before Uncle Tom, Mom, and Aunt Ellie were born. Late 40's.



Grandma B. and Me - 1977ish

Grandma B. with Cade - 2000

Grandma B. with Mom and My Daughters - 2010