I feel like there's nothing left of her, of the person she once was. I tell myself she still knows who we are, even if peripherally, and that is positive. She plays solitaire on a little table in her room with a deck of cards that is missing a few, a joke hidden in there I see and choose to smile at. She would have, the old her, the sharp her who would not recognize herself today. She would have laughed at the joke.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
She would have laughed
I have avoided writing about my grandmother lately, feeling I have nothing left to say on the subject. Once every fourteen days I see her. For an hour or two I sit across from her and force conversation and speak louder than is normal and keep a cheerful tone. I watch her eat food she isn't even tasting. We talk about things that aren't really happening and don't talk about things that are.
I feel like there's nothing left of her, of the person she once was. I tell myself she still knows who we are, even if peripherally, and that is positive. She plays solitaire on a little table in her room with a deck of cards that is missing a few, a joke hidden in there I see and choose to smile at. She would have, the old her, the sharp her who would not recognize herself today. She would have laughed at the joke.
I feel like there's nothing left of her, of the person she once was. I tell myself she still knows who we are, even if peripherally, and that is positive. She plays solitaire on a little table in her room with a deck of cards that is missing a few, a joke hidden in there I see and choose to smile at. She would have, the old her, the sharp her who would not recognize herself today. She would have laughed at the joke.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Goodbye Gus
Yesterday I learned that someone I knew not very well but always liked very much had died. I found myself sadder than one should be over the death of someone they did not know intimately, was neither a family member nor a close friend to and I thought about why this was. He, like me, was a restaurant owner and he lived it in every breath he took. Watching him greet his regulars, embrace them like family, remember their orders....it was a thing of beauty.
I think the truth of it is I see myself and my husband and my grandmother in his story. I am reminded that my grandmother will likely soon die, that one day the restaurants my husband and I own will be closed, meals there eaten by those that came faithfully to our counters but a memory. I am reminded of the impermanence of everything.
Life has a way of marching on, through death and illness and the little silly stuff in life that seems so big and is always quickly forgotten. The passing of Gus reminds me of what I want my life to be, the imprint I want to make while I am here. The very best part of owning restaurants is being allowed to be a part of other people's lives, the special moments and the ordinary ones. Looking back on one’s life, I think the ordinary moments become the special ones. Like all the mornings I spent at that diner that Gus' family had since the beginning of time, often hungover, eating eggs and drinking coffee and planning ways to make my life better, those ordinary moments have become special to me. Rest in peace dear Gus.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Carmela
I don't embrace her the same way I used to, a fact that causes me shame. As a child I was like a lap cat with my grandmother. When I got too big to sit in her lap I'd settle for sitting on the floor and resting my head in her lap or sitting next to her and holding her hand. Now when I go to see her, I kiss her on her forehead, not on her cheek or on the lips. I hug her, but awkwardly so because of her wheelchair.
Many memories I have are associated with smell, the smells of pies baking and leaves burning and coffee brewing early in the morning. My grandmother smells like a stranger to me. Her skin feels differently, her hair is almost always unbrushed.
There is a sweet little old lady named Carmela at the nursing home who always says hello to me when I come. She likes my kids and they like her. I overheard her telling someone today that I was Josephine's granddaughter. "She comes all the time and has a lot of children" is how she described me. It made me smile. I often look at her enviously, wishing my grandma could be more like her. She is so kind, 90 years old and very with it, chatting and smiling in her neat little cardigan, not cheap with a smile or a wave.
My grandmother is cranky and anti-social and always remembering less. She yelled at me today to not bring my son (who I had left at home) until I brushed his hair. She obsessed with everyones hair. Mine is always too long and usually the wrong color for her. My kids act like I'm trying to kill them when I try and run a comb through their hair, so that's a fight I save for school days.
I left today's visit feeling a twinge of guilt, feeling like I'd rushed through my visit, just kind of went through the motions. I was finding it hard to carry both ends of the conversation, which is usually the case. She was never really like kind old Carmela with a heart open to everyone. She was more guarded. A tougher nut to crack. But with her and I it was always different, so easy. We have always been like two old friends that could pick up where the other one left off, sharing meals and jokes and the love of "The Golden Girls". Sitting with her today, I wanted her to pick up where I left off, but those days are long gone.
Many memories I have are associated with smell, the smells of pies baking and leaves burning and coffee brewing early in the morning. My grandmother smells like a stranger to me. Her skin feels differently, her hair is almost always unbrushed.
There is a sweet little old lady named Carmela at the nursing home who always says hello to me when I come. She likes my kids and they like her. I overheard her telling someone today that I was Josephine's granddaughter. "She comes all the time and has a lot of children" is how she described me. It made me smile. I often look at her enviously, wishing my grandma could be more like her. She is so kind, 90 years old and very with it, chatting and smiling in her neat little cardigan, not cheap with a smile or a wave.
My grandmother is cranky and anti-social and always remembering less. She yelled at me today to not bring my son (who I had left at home) until I brushed his hair. She obsessed with everyones hair. Mine is always too long and usually the wrong color for her. My kids act like I'm trying to kill them when I try and run a comb through their hair, so that's a fight I save for school days.
I left today's visit feeling a twinge of guilt, feeling like I'd rushed through my visit, just kind of went through the motions. I was finding it hard to carry both ends of the conversation, which is usually the case. She was never really like kind old Carmela with a heart open to everyone. She was more guarded. A tougher nut to crack. But with her and I it was always different, so easy. We have always been like two old friends that could pick up where the other one left off, sharing meals and jokes and the love of "The Golden Girls". Sitting with her today, I wanted her to pick up where I left off, but those days are long gone.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Hello Stranger
She sits in her chair staring out the window, back to the door, hunched forward. I find her this way every time I visit. The nurse I pass in the hall advises me that she is "feeling blue". My mother and I wait in the doorway and send in my son first, holding her cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese, and watch as he runs to her and she turns and smiles at him. While all of the dots have stopped connecting for her, she knows she's happy to see him. She knows he is the same little boy she has pictures of on her windowsill. She does not remember his name.
This visit marked a significant decline in my grandmother. While what happened yesterday or five years ago has been out of her mental grasp for sometime, she has also begun to forget the past almost completely. She turned to my mother and said "My husband has passed away, right?" We both remained straight faced and my mother said yes, in 1991. She did not remember the details of his open heart surgery in 1976, or our time spent at Bakers Acres campground with the Schernes and the Ingrams. These are all things that, very recently, we were able to talk about.
Physically she did not seem great either, her ankles were very swollen and when we suggested she might need to be cleaned up before we took her upstairs, she was adamant that she did not, despite the fact that our noses told us other wise. I looked in her drawers (something that still feels strange, just going through her things) for a brush to tidy up her hair and when I couldn't locate one she informed me that people were stealing her things. They have long arms around here she announced. I told her I'd buy here a new one but that didn't seem to make her very happy.
Alzheimer's is so very cruel, it takes and takes until there's nothing left. I worry about what it will look like for her at the end, will she die before she forgets everything? Will she know who I am at the end? She is increasingly a stranger to me that I treat with love and kindness, but have a hard time finding things to talk with her about. I love her just the same, but I ache to have the old her back.
This visit marked a significant decline in my grandmother. While what happened yesterday or five years ago has been out of her mental grasp for sometime, she has also begun to forget the past almost completely. She turned to my mother and said "My husband has passed away, right?" We both remained straight faced and my mother said yes, in 1991. She did not remember the details of his open heart surgery in 1976, or our time spent at Bakers Acres campground with the Schernes and the Ingrams. These are all things that, very recently, we were able to talk about.
Physically she did not seem great either, her ankles were very swollen and when we suggested she might need to be cleaned up before we took her upstairs, she was adamant that she did not, despite the fact that our noses told us other wise. I looked in her drawers (something that still feels strange, just going through her things) for a brush to tidy up her hair and when I couldn't locate one she informed me that people were stealing her things. They have long arms around here she announced. I told her I'd buy here a new one but that didn't seem to make her very happy.
Alzheimer's is so very cruel, it takes and takes until there's nothing left. I worry about what it will look like for her at the end, will she die before she forgets everything? Will she know who I am at the end? She is increasingly a stranger to me that I treat with love and kindness, but have a hard time finding things to talk with her about. I love her just the same, but I ache to have the old her back.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
This Summer
This summer is drawing near to it's inevitable end and I find myself feeling reflective about what I did and who I did it with and what I wish I'd done better. In June I looked at the calendar and saw many an empty week and wondered what I'd fill it with. The kids were not signed up for camp, no big plans were made and my attitude was very play it by ear. On any given week I could be at the beach house, in Brooklyn or up at my mom's. In fact, my friends would often text me "You around? Beacon? Shirley?", knowing those were the three spots I cycled through all summer long, never unpacking my blue back pack I lugged everywhere, transporting in it my laptop, an iPad, contacts, my array of Kiehl's products I recently decided I can't live without, snacks, a clean t-shirt, bandaids for the inevitable kid injury and pair of awesome headphones Josh bought for himself that I promptly stole.
This summer I feel deeply in love with my family. On a daily basis they pushed me to my limit and tested my dwindling patience and made me scream and shout and get it all out and blew my mind with their level of awesomeness. They have shown me unspeakable acts of kindness towards one another and deep insight into what makes me tick. They get me. And I get them. I looked at my husband many times this summer and felt profoundly grateful to be on this ride with him. Making babies and raising these little people and running our restaurants and witnessing our older family age. All of the little intimate and ordinary details of my everyday are shared with him and I can think of no one better to be in that position in my life.
This summer reminded me I can not be in two places at once, it echoed to me the sentiment my mother has always told me : the best gift you can give someone is your time. Everytime I went to visit my grandmother, whether alone or with one of my kids, I tried to have an experience with her. I tried to just hold the moment with her and leave my expectations at the door. I know in her own way, she appreciates the visits as much as I enjoy visiting her.
This summer I said good bye to people who had been in my life a combined 12 plus years, to a manager, a book keeper, my hair dresser. I watched a friend's marriage fall apart. I gave up on losing five pounds. I obsessed over getting the perfect lunch boxes for the girls' for school. I dyed my hair brown. I liked who I was this summer and I am crazy about all the people I got to spend it with, friends who visited me at the beach and hung out with me in Brooklyn and had moments with me. I loved all of our shared experiences. Thank you for that.
This summer I feel deeply in love with my family. On a daily basis they pushed me to my limit and tested my dwindling patience and made me scream and shout and get it all out and blew my mind with their level of awesomeness. They have shown me unspeakable acts of kindness towards one another and deep insight into what makes me tick. They get me. And I get them. I looked at my husband many times this summer and felt profoundly grateful to be on this ride with him. Making babies and raising these little people and running our restaurants and witnessing our older family age. All of the little intimate and ordinary details of my everyday are shared with him and I can think of no one better to be in that position in my life.
This summer reminded me I can not be in two places at once, it echoed to me the sentiment my mother has always told me : the best gift you can give someone is your time. Everytime I went to visit my grandmother, whether alone or with one of my kids, I tried to have an experience with her. I tried to just hold the moment with her and leave my expectations at the door. I know in her own way, she appreciates the visits as much as I enjoy visiting her.
This summer I said good bye to people who had been in my life a combined 12 plus years, to a manager, a book keeper, my hair dresser. I watched a friend's marriage fall apart. I gave up on losing five pounds. I obsessed over getting the perfect lunch boxes for the girls' for school. I dyed my hair brown. I liked who I was this summer and I am crazy about all the people I got to spend it with, friends who visited me at the beach and hung out with me in Brooklyn and had moments with me. I loved all of our shared experiences. Thank you for that.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Rain Drops Keep Fallin On My Head
Last night I dreamt of packing up my grandmother's things, not like we did, from her final sad apartment that she spent less than a year living in. The apartment I tried cheerfully and desperately to convince her was great when we toured it together, the week after Thanksgiving 2012. In my dream we were back in the house she shared with my grandfather and everything was still intact, the house and her memory and my heart.
The contents of her bedroom were all there. The dark, oversized bedroom set, her satin lined jewelry box with its mix of heirloom and costume jewelry. Her oval mirror always sat atop her dresser and kept organized her perfume, powder and brushes. My most cherished trinket in her room was her tiny music box that, when opened, played "Rain Drops Keep Falling On My Head". She used to wind it up and set it on her dresser while she brushed my hair to distract me. When I awoke from my dream I could smell her bedroom, and my first thought was of that song. Many of her favorite singers had done versions of this song and I'd probably heard them all: Engelbert Humperdink, Perry Como, Andy Williams. Listening to old music and playing cards was how we passed our afternoons. How lucky we were.
"Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head"
The contents of her bedroom were all there. The dark, oversized bedroom set, her satin lined jewelry box with its mix of heirloom and costume jewelry. Her oval mirror always sat atop her dresser and kept organized her perfume, powder and brushes. My most cherished trinket in her room was her tiny music box that, when opened, played "Rain Drops Keep Falling On My Head". She used to wind it up and set it on her dresser while she brushed my hair to distract me. When I awoke from my dream I could smell her bedroom, and my first thought was of that song. Many of her favorite singers had done versions of this song and I'd probably heard them all: Engelbert Humperdink, Perry Como, Andy Williams. Listening to old music and playing cards was how we passed our afternoons. How lucky we were.
"Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head"
[Originally by B. J. Thomas]
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
Just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed
Nothing seems to fit
Oh, raindrops keep fallin' on my head
Keep a-fallin'
Cause I just done me some talking to the sun
And I said I didn't like the way he got things done
Sleeping on the job
Oh, raindrops keep fallin' on my head
Keep a-fallin'
But there's one thing I know
The blues they send to meet me
Won't defeat me
It won't be long till happiness
Comes up to greet me
To greet greet greet greet me
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red
Crying's not for me
Cause I ain't gonna stop the rain by complaining
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red
Crying's not for me
Cause I ain't gonna stop the rain by complaining
Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me
Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me
Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me
Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
Just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed
Nothing seems to fit
Oh, raindrops keep fallin' on my head
Keep a-fallin'
Cause I just done me some talking to the sun
And I said I didn't like the way he got things done
Sleeping on the job
Oh, raindrops keep fallin' on my head
Keep a-fallin'
But there's one thing I know
The blues they send to meet me
Won't defeat me
It won't be long till happiness
Comes up to greet me
To greet greet greet greet me
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red
Crying's not for me
Cause I ain't gonna stop the rain by complaining
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red
Crying's not for me
Cause I ain't gonna stop the rain by complaining
Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me
Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me
Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me
Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
The Dying Light
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
I can not write about my most recent visit to my grandmother without first acknowledging the tragic passing of Robin Williams. I heard, like most everyone did, early last night that he had taken his life, at the age of 63. The fact that he was a father and a husband and a genius and 63, each one of these facts makes it all somehow sadder to me. I am reminded that life is fragile and to be kind to everyone, as we are all fighting our private battles in life.
My grandmother's battle is her disappearing memory, her erratic behavior, her loneliness. Alzheimer's is winning, as it always does. My visit with her on Sunday was not particularly good. I found her agitated and grouchy and mostly uncooperative. I am not alarmed by this as I recognize that it is all perfectly normal. Good mood or bad, I continue on with my plan for her when I visit, a snack, a game of cards, then upstairs to the activities room, despite her very vocal protests. She's not a joiner of activities she tells me. you are now, I tell her.
It's almost like I've had two grandmother's in my life: the woman I grew up with, who braided my hair too tight and fed me too much and taught me to play cards, And the other: the one I have I've watched forget birthdays and names and what she had for breakfast. I fully love the woman she is now and very much miss the person she used to be.
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
I can not write about my most recent visit to my grandmother without first acknowledging the tragic passing of Robin Williams. I heard, like most everyone did, early last night that he had taken his life, at the age of 63. The fact that he was a father and a husband and a genius and 63, each one of these facts makes it all somehow sadder to me. I am reminded that life is fragile and to be kind to everyone, as we are all fighting our private battles in life.
My grandmother's battle is her disappearing memory, her erratic behavior, her loneliness. Alzheimer's is winning, as it always does. My visit with her on Sunday was not particularly good. I found her agitated and grouchy and mostly uncooperative. I am not alarmed by this as I recognize that it is all perfectly normal. Good mood or bad, I continue on with my plan for her when I visit, a snack, a game of cards, then upstairs to the activities room, despite her very vocal protests. She's not a joiner of activities she tells me. you are now, I tell her.
It's almost like I've had two grandmother's in my life: the woman I grew up with, who braided my hair too tight and fed me too much and taught me to play cards, And the other: the one I have I've watched forget birthdays and names and what she had for breakfast. I fully love the woman she is now and very much miss the person she used to be.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Good bye Uncle Mike
My grandfather's brother Mike passed away on Saturday. Their mother was Anella, the woman one of my restaurants was named after. He was born July 26th, 1927, and in a moment of life truly coming full circle, he died on his birthday at 87 years old. Below is an excerpt from his obituary, which does a great job of summing up his life in a few sentences.
Michael was a parishioner and an usher with Sacred Heart Church of Monroe and was a member of Teamsters Local #445 of Newburgh. He was Vice President of Mancino Trucking Company, Inc., the former President of Monroe Skating Paradise, a former member of Mombasha Fire Company, former member of Knights of Columbus Council #2079, and a former member of American Legion Post #488 of Monroe. He was a former Trustee for the Village of Monroe and retired as the Highway Superintendent with the Village of Monroe. Michael was a Veteran of the U.S. Army and served his country during World War II.
Of course, an obituary only mentions the big stuff, the positions you held and places you worked and how many kids you had and which school you graduated from. It can never tell the full story. I'm sure he had dreams that were never realized and moments of beauty only he saw. In his 87 years surely his heart was broken many times and he took paths he later regretted. A life is made up of a million little moments, all colliding into each other and overlapping into a quilt of memories you have to reflect back on when you are older. And perhaps this is what saddens me the most with my grandmother. Her quilt of memories is disintegrating everyday. It has decades worth of gaping holes.
I only knew my Uncle Mike as an old man (he was 53 when I was born, which for a kid may as well be 100) and always liked him. He lived two doors down from my grandparents on Elm Street in Monroe. My grandpa and Uncle Mike's older brother Carl had the house in-between them and could be seen driving up and down the driveway in his car with his stick out the window. He was blind from diabetes and was permitted to pull the car up to the street. Not legally permitted, but apparently all the grown ups felt it was okay. As a little girl I knew to stay away from the driveway when Uncle Carl was driving.
As a teen I worked at a much loved deli in town, Monroe Bagels and Deli. Some of my uncles would come in for their morning coffee or a buttered roll in the afternoon, but Uncle Mike was the only one that tipped me, something that became a joke between me and my mom's brother. My boss at the deli Dave, seemed to know everyone, my family included, and I took mental note of how cool I thought that was. Many years later when I opened up my first restaurant I realized how very much like Dave I had become, in my work ethic and memory of all my regulars.
I will remember Uncle Mike as being funny and kind to me as a kid lying on his living room floor coloring while watching The Price is Right and as an awkward, bagel-slinging teen, grinning at his quarter tip. Rest in Peace Uncle Mike. I hope you are roller skating through heaven with a cup of coffee in your hand and a smile on your face.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
East Mombasha kids
We were the kids of lovers. Of artists and painters and carpenters. Of adults with dreams we never knew, of lives we only saw parts of. Our parents were hippies and hunters and most of them smoked like chimneys. They went to work everyday and ate dinner with us each night. They chopped logs for our wood stoves and made us rake leaves til blisters decorated our tiny hands.
We fought with our siblings. We tattled to our parents and who ever else might listen. We fell asleep in the summer exhausted and covered in mosquito bites, greasy from Skin So Soft with hair smelling of citronella candles and firewood. There was no air conditioning, just a fan if we were lucky enough to get it.
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I mostly only use this space to write about my grandmother and my struggle with her slide into Alzheimer's. Yesterday I had the pleasure of having one of my childhood friends over to my mom's house for dinner. The Schernes and the Papagnis lived on the same dirt road for almost twenty years and we share a treasure trove of memories and stories of a childhood spent running through the same woods. Us children have all grown up and we now have families of our own. My mother is the only parent of the two families left and that breaks my heart.
I was driving away from my mom's house today alone when my phone rang. I glanced down and saw it was my mom calling and pulled over so I could answer it. She told me Maggie wanted me to come back. She really wanted to visit my grandma. So we hung up and I turned around and drove back and got my sweet middle child and drove with her to the nursing home, mostly in silence, thinking of the night before and how nice it had been.
A common theme with me lately seems to be the idea that life is going by so quickly. I see it in my children and how fast they grow. I see it in my grandma and her seemingly constant deterioration. I think about my life as a kid with a mixture of sadness and gratitude. All of it, my kids and my grandma and looking back on what was, makes me want to appreciate what I have now. I want these to be the days I look back on in twenty years and remember how wonderful they were.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Stay seated, hands inside the ride please
I don't care about anything anymore, she announced to me today. Deep breath, I told myself.
When I arrived it was nearly lunch time and I could see some of the residents had already taken their assigned seats at the dining room tables when I peeked in to see if she was there. She was not. I signed in and walked down the hallway, all the way to the end where her room is. Her bed was neatly made, topped with the quilt my aunt made for her, knitted from scraps of scarves and sweaters and holiday ornaments. I walked back down to the nurses station and popped my head in the manager's office, a perfectly named woman: Dolores. She told me my aunt, the same one that knitted the quilt, had taken her up to the salon on the second floor to get her hair done.
Stepping off the elevator I could hear my aunt laughing and didn't have to guess which direction to go in. My aunt and I helped the hair dresser take rollers out of a few of the ladies hair, and when everyone was brushed and hair-sprayed, we rode the elevator down one floor to have lunch. My aunt had gone ahead with Eileen, one of my grandma's table mates that I am particularly fond of. It was exiting the elevator when my grandma announced she no longer cared about anything. There's really not very much to say when she says something like that. I get it. This sucks and I don't blame her for not caring. Her moments of clarity are painful for her and for me.
During lunch Eileen declared that she lived alone and did not cook anymore, too much work she said, who can bother to cook for one person. Amen Eileen, I told her, I totally agree. My grandma told Eileen she wanted a cigarette. Me too, I chimed in. You smoke, Eileen asked my grandma, surprised. I'm 99% quit, my grandma told her. I enjoy this banter they have. It doesn't bother me, having the same conversation three times over soft chicken and strawberry ice-cream (no one wanted the pears for dessert, they never do).
There were moments in the meal that I felt a panic rising up, like I might start crying at the table. I always feel this way, slightly claustrophobic in the large room, this sadness that settles in when I look at her face. I push it down, but one day I'm afraid I won't be able to and I'll just start bawling in front of all of the blank faced old people.
I wheeled her and a friend of her's back to her room and reminded them over and over that no one was to try and get out of their wheel chairs. I put on The Young and the Restless and made sure the volume was correct. Okay, I said, turning to face both of them. Who's getting into bed?! No one, my grandma barked. Good job, I said, that was a test and you passed. Stay seated I said kindly but firmly.
A gentle kiss was planted upon her soft forehead and I left her to watch what the Newmans and the Abbotts were up to.
When I arrived it was nearly lunch time and I could see some of the residents had already taken their assigned seats at the dining room tables when I peeked in to see if she was there. She was not. I signed in and walked down the hallway, all the way to the end where her room is. Her bed was neatly made, topped with the quilt my aunt made for her, knitted from scraps of scarves and sweaters and holiday ornaments. I walked back down to the nurses station and popped my head in the manager's office, a perfectly named woman: Dolores. She told me my aunt, the same one that knitted the quilt, had taken her up to the salon on the second floor to get her hair done.
Stepping off the elevator I could hear my aunt laughing and didn't have to guess which direction to go in. My aunt and I helped the hair dresser take rollers out of a few of the ladies hair, and when everyone was brushed and hair-sprayed, we rode the elevator down one floor to have lunch. My aunt had gone ahead with Eileen, one of my grandma's table mates that I am particularly fond of. It was exiting the elevator when my grandma announced she no longer cared about anything. There's really not very much to say when she says something like that. I get it. This sucks and I don't blame her for not caring. Her moments of clarity are painful for her and for me.
During lunch Eileen declared that she lived alone and did not cook anymore, too much work she said, who can bother to cook for one person. Amen Eileen, I told her, I totally agree. My grandma told Eileen she wanted a cigarette. Me too, I chimed in. You smoke, Eileen asked my grandma, surprised. I'm 99% quit, my grandma told her. I enjoy this banter they have. It doesn't bother me, having the same conversation three times over soft chicken and strawberry ice-cream (no one wanted the pears for dessert, they never do).
There were moments in the meal that I felt a panic rising up, like I might start crying at the table. I always feel this way, slightly claustrophobic in the large room, this sadness that settles in when I look at her face. I push it down, but one day I'm afraid I won't be able to and I'll just start bawling in front of all of the blank faced old people.
I wheeled her and a friend of her's back to her room and reminded them over and over that no one was to try and get out of their wheel chairs. I put on The Young and the Restless and made sure the volume was correct. Okay, I said, turning to face both of them. Who's getting into bed?! No one, my grandma barked. Good job, I said, that was a test and you passed. Stay seated I said kindly but firmly.
A gentle kiss was planted upon her soft forehead and I left her to watch what the Newmans and the Abbotts were up to.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Sundowning
Sundowning, or sundown syndrome, is a common term used to refer to the agitation, anxiety and confusion that affects many Alzheimer's patients. It occurs later in the day and can continue into the night and even make sleeping difficult. My grandmother has not escaped this part of the disease. I try to keep my visits between ten a.m. and two p.m. Yesterday my visit, which included my mother and all three of my kids, began at four p.m. I knew this would not be easy.
I can remember the exact moment when I knew that my grandmother was in trouble. I remember the phone call when I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. When I hung up the phone and cried and called my mother. It was one night in February, almost a year and a half ago, when I had called my grandma and asked her what she had for dinner. It was a common question for us, talking about meals and what we had cooked or would cook the next day. This time when I asked her what she had for dinner she said she didn't know. I was confused how she didn't know, she always ate at five thirty. She then asked me what time it was and I told her seven. Seven at night or seven in the morning, she asked. I felt a real sinking feeling. It's night time gram, I told her, you must have dozed off in the chair. I made light of it with her and immediately called my mom when we hung up.
Summertime makes my weekly visits become every two week visits, which is why I had to squeeze in a visit with my kids in the afternoon. She was disturbed by the noise the kids made and she was afraid they could get hurt if they ran in the hallway. I wore a dress and put my hair up but she didn't seem to notice. She was intent, as she always is, on brushing the kids' hair. She wasn't able to locate her brush and that upset her. She didn't want to see the movie showing after dinner because she claimed she'd already seen it (even though she didn't actually know what movie was playing, she was certain she'd seen it).
I left the nursing home feeling a little sad and defeated. And guilty. I get frustrated when she doesn't behave the way I want her to. Some of the other residents who always sit by the nurses station, tucked into their wheel chairs in homemade sweaters, are sweet and always smile at me when I come in. They sit together. I want that for her, rather than passing the hours and days sitting in her room alone doing jig saw puzzles. But it's not for me to decide how she lives what's left of her life. All I can do is keep showing up. And love her. That's it.
I can remember the exact moment when I knew that my grandmother was in trouble. I remember the phone call when I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. When I hung up the phone and cried and called my mother. It was one night in February, almost a year and a half ago, when I had called my grandma and asked her what she had for dinner. It was a common question for us, talking about meals and what we had cooked or would cook the next day. This time when I asked her what she had for dinner she said she didn't know. I was confused how she didn't know, she always ate at five thirty. She then asked me what time it was and I told her seven. Seven at night or seven in the morning, she asked. I felt a real sinking feeling. It's night time gram, I told her, you must have dozed off in the chair. I made light of it with her and immediately called my mom when we hung up.
Summertime makes my weekly visits become every two week visits, which is why I had to squeeze in a visit with my kids in the afternoon. She was disturbed by the noise the kids made and she was afraid they could get hurt if they ran in the hallway. I wore a dress and put my hair up but she didn't seem to notice. She was intent, as she always is, on brushing the kids' hair. She wasn't able to locate her brush and that upset her. She didn't want to see the movie showing after dinner because she claimed she'd already seen it (even though she didn't actually know what movie was playing, she was certain she'd seen it).
I left the nursing home feeling a little sad and defeated. And guilty. I get frustrated when she doesn't behave the way I want her to. Some of the other residents who always sit by the nurses station, tucked into their wheel chairs in homemade sweaters, are sweet and always smile at me when I come in. They sit together. I want that for her, rather than passing the hours and days sitting in her room alone doing jig saw puzzles. But it's not for me to decide how she lives what's left of her life. All I can do is keep showing up. And love her. That's it.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Next time I'll wear a ball gown
She didn't want to leave her room today. My usually offensive hair (long, wild, unbrushed) went unnoticed by her today, her focus shifting to my unforgivable choice in pants. Now in retrospective, I should have known better. These were text book 'grandma will hate these' pants: baggy, torn, faded, knees completely blown out, just hanging off me. She took breaks from asking to brush my two year old son's hair to mention how terrible I looked. I told her that she could brush my son's hair after she let me brush her hair, which she nodded would be fine.
We decided to go sit outside and she hemmed and hawed a little about leaving her room and my mother and I realized she was worried what the old ladies who lined the hallway would think, the ones who sat chatting quietly in their wheelchairs, waiting for it to be time for the next meal, the main activity at the nursing home. I teased her and promised that the next time I visited I would wear a ball gown. She smiled and laughed at me and my mother watched us, as she often does when my grandmother and I are together, quietly, taking it all in. She has been front and center for the magical relationship my grandmother and I have shared for the past three decades. She understands my pain in losing her to Alzheimers like no other person can.
I want to turn back time and have it be the summer of '86 or '87, when my grandpa was still well enough to go the beach and my grandmother still smoked menthols and played cards with the neighbors and she fed me and bathed me and brushed my hair. I want to go back to a time when she held my hand while we played cards, not because she needed to, but because an extra squeeze reminded me how much she loved. I want to sleep on her couch again, on cool sheets, as I hear her quietly snoring in the room next door. I want to be ten years old again in her kitchen, peeling apple after apple, carefully piling the peels in a neat little mound, preparing pies for Thanksgiving.
When I look at her, I see who she is today, but also who she was, all those years and all of those things we did together. I am so lucky, to have been taught how to play gin rummy by a champ and make a pie by a fantastic baker. So thankful for all she has taught me.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Victoria Newman
I know when she's about to say it. When she's been looking at me too long in silence and squints her eyes in confusion. I wait for it. Never really insulted, more amused by the conviction she has for her feelings.
'What have you done to your hair?'
She asks me this every time I visit her despite the fact that my hair has not changed very much in the past year. She is insistent that she does not like it.
'I don't understand. What color do you want it to be?'
When I was a kid we would watch 'The Young and Restless' and often my grandma would try and do my hair like one of the main characters on the show, Victoria Newman. It always turned out very nice but she pulled it so tight it was hard to blink my eyes. I was the only ten year old with a natural facelift.
In an effort to make the most of whatever time I have left with her brain, I have begun to dig deeper in our visits. Today for the first time I acknowledged to her that she does not remember stuff from three years ago, and that is okay. I suggested that maybe she remembers things better that happened twenty years ago.
So sitting there outside in the sun, my mom sitting on the grass with my son, my grandmother sitting across from me holding my hand, I asked her if she remembered visiting one of my restaurants a few years ago. She said she did not. Don't worry about it, I told her. What about going to the Jersey Shore, I said. Bakers Acres (the campground where we stayed)? John and Karla? Ginny and Gary? Deep sea fishing and beer and pizza? Yes, she said and smiled and squeezed my hand. Those were good times, she told me.
We talked about the cars she had with my grandfather (always Cadillacs) and I recited for her the colors: mint green, green leather interior (my favorite), gold with tan leather interior (the one she had when my grandpa died) and so on. We went over the colors of the rugs in all of the upstairs bedrooms before her house became two apartments. I took off the ring she gave me, the one my grandfather gave her for a wedding anniversary many, many moons ago, and slid it as far as it would go on her finger and watched her smile at it.
'Make sure the stones don't fall out' she told me. I asked her if they ever had. Well no, she said. I laughed. The ring is close to fifty years old. I think those stones are staying put I told her and gave her a big hug.
Missing her tonight and feeling the weight of it all, the sadness and the joy of watching her last chapter be written. Mostly though I just feel lucky, to have been there and have shared so much with her and now, when she falters and struggles to put together the pieces of a specific memory, I can be there to help her, to remind her of all the beauty that we've seen together.
'What have you done to your hair?'
She asks me this every time I visit her despite the fact that my hair has not changed very much in the past year. She is insistent that she does not like it.
'I don't understand. What color do you want it to be?'
When I was a kid we would watch 'The Young and Restless' and often my grandma would try and do my hair like one of the main characters on the show, Victoria Newman. It always turned out very nice but she pulled it so tight it was hard to blink my eyes. I was the only ten year old with a natural facelift.
In an effort to make the most of whatever time I have left with her brain, I have begun to dig deeper in our visits. Today for the first time I acknowledged to her that she does not remember stuff from three years ago, and that is okay. I suggested that maybe she remembers things better that happened twenty years ago.
So sitting there outside in the sun, my mom sitting on the grass with my son, my grandmother sitting across from me holding my hand, I asked her if she remembered visiting one of my restaurants a few years ago. She said she did not. Don't worry about it, I told her. What about going to the Jersey Shore, I said. Bakers Acres (the campground where we stayed)? John and Karla? Ginny and Gary? Deep sea fishing and beer and pizza? Yes, she said and smiled and squeezed my hand. Those were good times, she told me.
We talked about the cars she had with my grandfather (always Cadillacs) and I recited for her the colors: mint green, green leather interior (my favorite), gold with tan leather interior (the one she had when my grandpa died) and so on. We went over the colors of the rugs in all of the upstairs bedrooms before her house became two apartments. I took off the ring she gave me, the one my grandfather gave her for a wedding anniversary many, many moons ago, and slid it as far as it would go on her finger and watched her smile at it.
'Make sure the stones don't fall out' she told me. I asked her if they ever had. Well no, she said. I laughed. The ring is close to fifty years old. I think those stones are staying put I told her and gave her a big hug.
Missing her tonight and feeling the weight of it all, the sadness and the joy of watching her last chapter be written. Mostly though I just feel lucky, to have been there and have shared so much with her and now, when she falters and struggles to put together the pieces of a specific memory, I can be there to help her, to remind her of all the beauty that we've seen together.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Having it All
When I was in third grade, my grandmother was 59, the same age my mother is now. When I was in third grade I thought my grandmother was old and couldn't imagine that she had once been my age. And when I was in third grade, my mother was the same age I am now. And my definition of what is old has shifted greatly in that time, so that now my 59 year old mother seems more like a sister to me, a peer. And my oldest child is now in third grade, and suddenly I am feeling old, questioning if I can still wear leather pants or halter tops, or if those days have passed.
I visited my grandmother this morning, another quick midweek visit, and in being there, I missed my daughter reading aloud a poem she wrote to her class. Her father went and took pictures and sent them to me, and yet I was still so sad to have missed it. Perhaps because of the state of my grandmother, or maybe I am prone to being melancholy, but lately I am acutely aware of how quickly life is racing by. I spent too many years sad and intoxicated and just burning daylight. With sobriety I gained a new found respect for time and that has been amplified in the past few years with the rapid growth of my children and simultaneous deterioration of my grandmother.
I know that my struggle to find balance in my life is neither unique to me nor a problem I will soon solve. I want to have it all, and my idea of what that means has changed drastically as I've gotten older. Having it all, at this stage of my life, simply means spending as much times as possible with my family, while still maintaining a career and meaningful relationships with a few close friends. That's it. That's what having it all means to me.
I visited my grandmother this morning, another quick midweek visit, and in being there, I missed my daughter reading aloud a poem she wrote to her class. Her father went and took pictures and sent them to me, and yet I was still so sad to have missed it. Perhaps because of the state of my grandmother, or maybe I am prone to being melancholy, but lately I am acutely aware of how quickly life is racing by. I spent too many years sad and intoxicated and just burning daylight. With sobriety I gained a new found respect for time and that has been amplified in the past few years with the rapid growth of my children and simultaneous deterioration of my grandmother.
I know that my struggle to find balance in my life is neither unique to me nor a problem I will soon solve. I want to have it all, and my idea of what that means has changed drastically as I've gotten older. Having it all, at this stage of my life, simply means spending as much times as possible with my family, while still maintaining a career and meaningful relationships with a few close friends. That's it. That's what having it all means to me.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Everything was all right.
A rare midweek visit to the nursing home left me feeling both happy and saddened by the reality of my grandmother's life. My mother asked me how I found my grandmother, a question we always ask each other. I told her my grandmother was like a book and each time I visited, another few pages were ripped out. There are things she recently remembered that seem to have vanished from her consciousness. We spoke about my brother and when she asked how old he was, I turned the question back on her. She squinted her eyes and brought her hand to her head, clearly searching through the fog that has settled over her brain to find the correct answer. Twenty-five, she guessed. Close, I told her. Thirty-seven. She was a few years off on her own age, which my husband reasoned that sometimes he forgets how old he is too. We talked about a dog she and my grandfather had, a beautiful golden retriever named Mack. I asked her if she remembered when Mack was a puppy, when they first got him. Again, she squinted. No, Blair, but that was a long time ago, that was seven years ago. They got the dog in 1985.
And yet, this was a good visit. She was happy. We sat outside in the sun and Crosby ran around in the grass and picked her flowers. She told me she didn't remember the night I was born, so I told her the story, that she was there and Karla Scherne and the doctor and it was snowing and I was born right there in the house in the middle of a blizzard. She smiled and nodded and said, and everything was all right. She may not remember it anymore, and that's okay, but she enjoyed hearing it. And that was enough for me.
And yet, this was a good visit. She was happy. We sat outside in the sun and Crosby ran around in the grass and picked her flowers. She told me she didn't remember the night I was born, so I told her the story, that she was there and Karla Scherne and the doctor and it was snowing and I was born right there in the house in the middle of a blizzard. She smiled and nodded and said, and everything was all right. She may not remember it anymore, and that's okay, but she enjoyed hearing it. And that was enough for me.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Forgotten
In three days I would have called her. I would have gotten the kids off to school and tidied up the kitchen and gone for a walk, maybe alone with a cup of coffee, and I would have dialed her number and waited for it to ring. For over twenty years I'd made this call. I likely said nearly the same thing every year, knowing it was just the fact that I was calling that was enough.
'Hey old girl, how ya doing? Just wanted to let you know I'm thinking about you and I love you', is what I said to her every May 7th, the anniversary of my grandfather's death, her husband, the father of her four children.
This year I will not call and she will not remember what May 7th means. My visit with her today was brief, as it usually is when I bring my kids. She was happy to see us and entertained by the kids as they climbed on her bed and used the controller to make it go up and down. They hid in her closet and would scream with laugher when one of them opened the door. She smiled and laughed. She did not scold or tell them to quiet down. She has forgotten that she dislikes rowdy behavior. I guess some things are okay to forget.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Mashed Potatoes?
I went to visit yesterday during lunch, my least favorite time to be there. If I am being totally honest, and what's the point of being anything else when writing, the smells and sounds and sight of all of the old people eating grosses me out. It always smells like urine and brown gravy. My grandmother constantly tries to feed me or my kids if we are there during a meal. At least ten times in as many minutes I had to politely tell her them my two year old son who was squirming in my lap in fact did not want any of her mashed potatoes or creamed spinach. And no, neither would I like you to give him any of the ginger ale from your tiny wine glass. And like a magician, she manages to pull a small brush out from behind her back and begin to try and comb through the halo of knotty ginger hair surrounding his face. Perhaps if he had napped he would have been more receptive to this, but I doubt it. Hair brushing is on the top of his two year old shit list, right up there with mittens and getting his face wet.
It was one of the more exhausting trips for me. A nursing home is a difficult place to bring children, something I am figuring out first hand. I know I need to learn to accept where she is at right now in her life and not need it to be different, not need her to be someone she simply is not. She is happier now than she was a year ago. She no longer asks to go home or clings to you when you hug her. She does not grasp what her life before the nursing home was and I am painfully aware at what a blessing this really is.
And as always, I am grateful that at least for now, when I walk into that diningroom that offends all my senses, she looks up and smiles and still knows who I am. And she looks happy. And that is all I can ask for.
It was one of the more exhausting trips for me. A nursing home is a difficult place to bring children, something I am figuring out first hand. I know I need to learn to accept where she is at right now in her life and not need it to be different, not need her to be someone she simply is not. She is happier now than she was a year ago. She no longer asks to go home or clings to you when you hug her. She does not grasp what her life before the nursing home was and I am painfully aware at what a blessing this really is.
And as always, I am grateful that at least for now, when I walk into that diningroom that offends all my senses, she looks up and smiles and still knows who I am. And she looks happy. And that is all I can ask for.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Fuck Alzheimer's
Sometimes, when your grandmother has Alzheimer's, you have a visit that warms your heart and reminds you of all the good memories. You hold her soft, wrinkled hand in yours and you smile at one another over a game of gin rummy and a plate of cookies.
Today was not one of those visits.
I often struggle when writing this blog with attempting to be open and honest and at the same time being respectful of her privacy. I don't know how well I achieve either. Sometimes one negates the other.
Today she was disinterested in the visit, with my mom and my kids and myself. She introduced my mother and I to people with the same wrong name. I was overwhelmed by the smell of the nursing home. I think I was secretly grateful that she was more interested in bingo than her family.
When we exited the diningroom, tables quickly filling up with wheelchairs holding crumpled bodies, some with sweet smiles, others with vacant stares, I stole glances back to my grandmother's table and noted that not once did she look up. She did not seem to notice that we had left.
I am relieved in a sense that her life there is becoming normal to her and she has ceased fighting it, while at the same time I am heart sick that I am losing her to this fucking disease.
Today was not one of those visits.
I often struggle when writing this blog with attempting to be open and honest and at the same time being respectful of her privacy. I don't know how well I achieve either. Sometimes one negates the other.
Today she was disinterested in the visit, with my mom and my kids and myself. She introduced my mother and I to people with the same wrong name. I was overwhelmed by the smell of the nursing home. I think I was secretly grateful that she was more interested in bingo than her family.
When we exited the diningroom, tables quickly filling up with wheelchairs holding crumpled bodies, some with sweet smiles, others with vacant stares, I stole glances back to my grandmother's table and noted that not once did she look up. She did not seem to notice that we had left.
I am relieved in a sense that her life there is becoming normal to her and she has ceased fighting it, while at the same time I am heart sick that I am losing her to this fucking disease.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Rice ecru fuck
She's slipping further away. She still knows me, thank god, but her level of confusion is increasing and she vacillates between irritation and apathy. Today's visit was typical of most, we played cards, she ate some of the snacks I brought her, repeatedly asked me to turn off her bedside lamp (her electrical bill was very high she said) and told me in detail about the large animals that jump from tree to tree. She was so gentle when describing them, these imaginary creatures that are alive only in her mind. She was almost peaceful.
I discovered shortly after arriving in her room today that her wheelchair wasn't working. The wheels were stuck. I asked her to sit on the bed and I got a nurse and explained the problem. No, she said, it's fine. No, I insisted, it is not fine, come see. I had dragged the wheelchair into the hallway so as not to upset my grandmother. After a brief back and forth with two nurse it was agreed that she indeed did need a new chair. They said a request had to be put in with PT. That sounded like it would take awhile. I really need her to have a new chair before I leave, I said. I can't have her stuck in her room.
We finished our card game just shy of 11:00 and I knew I had to leave soon and still, no sign of the new chair. I told my grandma I'd be right back and marched down to the nurses station. I was fully prepared to do my best Shirley MacLaine-Terms of Endearment melt down. The nurse who I had spoken to earlier saw me and I think could tell I meant business. Before I could launch into my tirade she said she'd be right down to my grandma's room with a chair.
Five minutes later I was pushing her down the hall in a loaner chair towards the elevator which would take us to the second floor where Sunday word games were taking place. When we got there the word 'Firetruck' was printed on the large dry erase board and the residents were trying to see how many words they could make from the letters in the word. There was a large list already started and my grandma wasted no time shouting out "rice", "truce", and "ecru". I was so proud of her. And also silently praying that she would not yell out "fuck", as that was the first word my mind made.
When it was time to leave, always sooner than I wanted to, always feeling guilty, I leaned over and gave her a kiss and promised I'd be back soon. No matter how often I visit, it never feels like enough.
Sent from my iPhone
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Ralph
When I was eleven years old, my grandfather died. I knew it was coming. My grandparents had built a house in Florida and the previous fall they drove down there from New York to spend their first season as 'snow birds'. My grandfather's sister and a close friend of theirs, who before moving to Florida had run a hot dog truck in town, had all moved to a small town called Spring Hill. It seemed to be filled with a lot of Irish and Italian New York transplants.
When they left I cried. My insomnia started. I used to sit in class and count down how many hours were left til I had to go to bed. The same year my grandparents left for Florida, my brother left for military school. I was suddenly very alone. I had shared so many meals with them, watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy and Mash many nights. One afternoon my grandfather left his spot in the sun resting against the stone wall and sat in my grandparents Cadillac, he in the drivers seat, me the passenger. It had been years since he'd driven. We pretended we were going down to the Jersey shore to go fishing and eat pizza. It is my favorite memory of him.
I took a trip to visit them with my aunt and uncle and my cousins for Christmas break. I snuck into bed with them in the morning and soaked in the smell of their sheets, so familiar, something I'd missed so much. When I moved to Brooklyn my grandmother gave me a stack of linen that she no longer needed. They all smelled like her, her house, her tidy little linen closet off the bathroom, a mix of Ivory soap and moth balls. I still have some pillowcases from her, but the smell is long gone. We took my grandfather to the beach when we were there and he sat on a bench, unable to move very well. I had never known him to be healthy. He had open heart surgey in 1976 and I was born in 1980. It seems like my whole life he was dying. But I guess we all are, in our own way.
I returned to Florida four months later for Easter break, this time alone. I spent ten days with them, eating and finding lizards in their back yard and watching him for clues. On the day before I was supposed to leave we were in the garage that connected to the house. He fell back against the door and it closed. My grandmother was on the other side of the door telling me to open it, to pick him up. I was eleven and not unusually strong and I was terrified I might not be able to move him. I managed to help him up and my grandma opened the door and we all went back inside.
I returned home the next day and sat on my bed with my mother beside me and I cried. I told her he was so much worse than when I had seen him for Christmas, I told her I thought he was going to die.
My grandparents flew home the next week and two days later my mom and I were sitting at our kitchen table having dinner and my mom got a call. He was in the hospital, she should come now. She called me from the hospital and let me know he had died, less than two weeks after I told her he would. I told her I needed to go to my grandma's house, I had to sleep with her, on his side of the bed, so she would not be alone. She agreed and came home from the hospital and drove me over there. I slept next to her that first night, holding her hand, protecting her.
I look at her now, diminished, broken down, confused, and I feel terrible, like I should be protecting her again. Like I have failed her. My eleven year old self would be shocked that I allowed her to be put in a nursing home. It was never my plan and yet here we are.
When they left I cried. My insomnia started. I used to sit in class and count down how many hours were left til I had to go to bed. The same year my grandparents left for Florida, my brother left for military school. I was suddenly very alone. I had shared so many meals with them, watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy and Mash many nights. One afternoon my grandfather left his spot in the sun resting against the stone wall and sat in my grandparents Cadillac, he in the drivers seat, me the passenger. It had been years since he'd driven. We pretended we were going down to the Jersey shore to go fishing and eat pizza. It is my favorite memory of him.
I took a trip to visit them with my aunt and uncle and my cousins for Christmas break. I snuck into bed with them in the morning and soaked in the smell of their sheets, so familiar, something I'd missed so much. When I moved to Brooklyn my grandmother gave me a stack of linen that she no longer needed. They all smelled like her, her house, her tidy little linen closet off the bathroom, a mix of Ivory soap and moth balls. I still have some pillowcases from her, but the smell is long gone. We took my grandfather to the beach when we were there and he sat on a bench, unable to move very well. I had never known him to be healthy. He had open heart surgey in 1976 and I was born in 1980. It seems like my whole life he was dying. But I guess we all are, in our own way.
I returned to Florida four months later for Easter break, this time alone. I spent ten days with them, eating and finding lizards in their back yard and watching him for clues. On the day before I was supposed to leave we were in the garage that connected to the house. He fell back against the door and it closed. My grandmother was on the other side of the door telling me to open it, to pick him up. I was eleven and not unusually strong and I was terrified I might not be able to move him. I managed to help him up and my grandma opened the door and we all went back inside.
I returned home the next day and sat on my bed with my mother beside me and I cried. I told her he was so much worse than when I had seen him for Christmas, I told her I thought he was going to die.
My grandparents flew home the next week and two days later my mom and I were sitting at our kitchen table having dinner and my mom got a call. He was in the hospital, she should come now. She called me from the hospital and let me know he had died, less than two weeks after I told her he would. I told her I needed to go to my grandma's house, I had to sleep with her, on his side of the bed, so she would not be alone. She agreed and came home from the hospital and drove me over there. I slept next to her that first night, holding her hand, protecting her.
I look at her now, diminished, broken down, confused, and I feel terrible, like I should be protecting her again. Like I have failed her. My eleven year old self would be shocked that I allowed her to be put in a nursing home. It was never my plan and yet here we are.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Good night, sleep tight
She was always a creature of habit, a fact I found both comforting and anxiety producing. Meals were served at the same time every day. Breakfast was at 8:00, and if, as was often the case, I had slept over, we would decide the menu the night before. Waffles, scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, cold cereal, half a grapefruit. These were all options. She would sit perched on the edge of my bed, covered with a quilt she had made herself with scraps of Pendleton wool, and ask me, so what's the menu? It was a fun game and one I never tired of.
Lunch was served at exactly noon, when the siren in town went off. If I was playing at the neighbors house this was the sound that let me know I had sixty seconds to run across the street to the mint green house my grandparents lived in and wash my hands, before I'd get in trouble. The mid-day meal varied more than any other. It ranged from cold cuts and fresh Italian bread purchased from Little Italy, the local shop in town that sold bread from Arthur Avenue and fresh mozzarella, to home made wedding soup with oyster crackers to cottage cheese and cantaloupe, a personal favorite of mine. My grandparents watched the Young and the Restless like it was their job, so lunch was always eaten and cleaned up completely by 12:30, as not to interrupt our viewing of the program.
Dinner was no less structured. Somewhere in their lives they had decided that 5:30 was the appropriate time for the dinner hour and they just stuck with that. The only exception would be Thanksgiving and Easter, both holidays that meals were serve at two. When I think of a dinner that my grandmother cooked, one always comes to mind. I don't think she cooked it more often than other meals, and yet this is the one that is seared in my brain. London broil with mashed potatoes and broccoli. She cooked the meat under the broiler and let it rest before slicing it on a wooden cutting board and transferring it to a platter. She'd put a few slices on my plate, with broccoli heavy on the garlic and a mountain of mashed potatoes with a little well of gravy in the middle. As a kid, that well of gravy was awesome. That she could do that was magical to me.
Lunch was served at exactly noon, when the siren in town went off. If I was playing at the neighbors house this was the sound that let me know I had sixty seconds to run across the street to the mint green house my grandparents lived in and wash my hands, before I'd get in trouble. The mid-day meal varied more than any other. It ranged from cold cuts and fresh Italian bread purchased from Little Italy, the local shop in town that sold bread from Arthur Avenue and fresh mozzarella, to home made wedding soup with oyster crackers to cottage cheese and cantaloupe, a personal favorite of mine. My grandparents watched the Young and the Restless like it was their job, so lunch was always eaten and cleaned up completely by 12:30, as not to interrupt our viewing of the program.
Dinner was no less structured. Somewhere in their lives they had decided that 5:30 was the appropriate time for the dinner hour and they just stuck with that. The only exception would be Thanksgiving and Easter, both holidays that meals were serve at two. When I think of a dinner that my grandmother cooked, one always comes to mind. I don't think she cooked it more often than other meals, and yet this is the one that is seared in my brain. London broil with mashed potatoes and broccoli. She cooked the meat under the broiler and let it rest before slicing it on a wooden cutting board and transferring it to a platter. She'd put a few slices on my plate, with broccoli heavy on the garlic and a mountain of mashed potatoes with a little well of gravy in the middle. As a kid, that well of gravy was awesome. That she could do that was magical to me.
My visit today made me miss her, the old her that is almost lost to me now, and the new her, that still knows me and wants me to visit more. I promised her I would be back next week and described to her the snacks I would bring, much like when I was eight and she would sit on the edge of my bed and recite my breakfast options, night after night. And she would always say the same thing as she walked out the door, after planting a kiss on my forehead, "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite."
Sunday, March 2, 2014
It might have been
“Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.”
As I was driving up to my mom's house on Friday, this quote came into my head, while my constant companion napped in his car seat and Fleetwood Mac played softly in the background. It made me think of my grandmother, who I would visit later in the day, and if she had ever been truly happy in her life. It made me consider my life and decisions I've made. Am I following my dreams, I thought, as I drove north in the afternoon winter sun. My life now is so unrecognizable from what it was ten years ago, so much has happened, so many restaurants and babies and big decisions made. I know that I am happy now, but will I look back and have regrets? Did my grandmother?
She was moved to a private room on Friday and my mother and I both felt it was important to help her get settled in to her new room. It was much nicer than her old one, bigger and brighter and at the end of a quiet hallway. She seemed, if not happy, content with being moved. When her clothes were hung, her picture frames placed on her long windowsill, her calendar taped up, her big basket full of yarn placed next to one of the chairs and her bed perfectly made, topped with a handmade blanket from my aunt, we left. We rolled her down to the dining room for dinner and kissed her goodbye. I promised I'd come back tomorrow to play cards, which I did. Two days in a row. It was a lot of driving, but it was nice.
When the day comes that she is no longer here, I will have no regrets. There is nothing I haven't told her, no 'might have beens' for me and her. Our story has been a wonderful one, one I'm thankful to have been a part of.
She was moved to a private room on Friday and my mother and I both felt it was important to help her get settled in to her new room. It was much nicer than her old one, bigger and brighter and at the end of a quiet hallway. She seemed, if not happy, content with being moved. When her clothes were hung, her picture frames placed on her long windowsill, her calendar taped up, her big basket full of yarn placed next to one of the chairs and her bed perfectly made, topped with a handmade blanket from my aunt, we left. We rolled her down to the dining room for dinner and kissed her goodbye. I promised I'd come back tomorrow to play cards, which I did. Two days in a row. It was a lot of driving, but it was nice.
When the day comes that she is no longer here, I will have no regrets. There is nothing I haven't told her, no 'might have beens' for me and her. Our story has been a wonderful one, one I'm thankful to have been a part of.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Like sands through the hourglass
I think I hear the clock ticking louder than usual lately. Perhaps it's why I am trying to make my once every two week visits turn into once a week visits. She is 85 and extremely overweight and suffering from Alzheimer's. Her mortality is very, very real to me.
I am extremely lucky to have a husband and kids that do not mind me leaving them for a night. Okay, let's be honest, they probably enjoy it. This time has been special for them, just like its been special for me and my mother. There is bonding happening and memories being made all around me, while at the same time, memories are being lost everyday. So far, when I visit, she still remembers who I am, remembers our routine of snacks and cards, and remembers that I have three kids, though the names often get jumbled.
Yesterday's visit was nice and sad, maybe sad because it was nice. She is fighting her current situation less, joining in activities more and less negative. She still complains about me putting her in there (her words, it's how she introduces me to everyone, the person that put her in there), but she moves on from her grumbling quickly. I point out how much lonelier she was before and how much safer she is now. She may not like it, but on some level, she knows I'm right.
While playing cards yesterday it hit me how much I love her, and have always loved her, and how deeply I will miss her when she's gone.
I am extremely lucky to have a husband and kids that do not mind me leaving them for a night. Okay, let's be honest, they probably enjoy it. This time has been special for them, just like its been special for me and my mother. There is bonding happening and memories being made all around me, while at the same time, memories are being lost everyday. So far, when I visit, she still remembers who I am, remembers our routine of snacks and cards, and remembers that I have three kids, though the names often get jumbled.
Yesterday's visit was nice and sad, maybe sad because it was nice. She is fighting her current situation less, joining in activities more and less negative. She still complains about me putting her in there (her words, it's how she introduces me to everyone, the person that put her in there), but she moves on from her grumbling quickly. I point out how much lonelier she was before and how much safer she is now. She may not like it, but on some level, she knows I'm right.
While playing cards yesterday it hit me how much I love her, and have always loved her, and how deeply I will miss her when she's gone.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Twilight
Finding beauty in the darkness.
I usually bring her a treat, chocolate, cookies, danish. I asked my mom to pick up some red pepper and fennel when she went into the store. Crosby had fallen asleep on the drive there so I sat in the car and listened to music quietly. In the morning, before I left, I cut up the vegetables and arranged them carefully in a container with tiny squares of Parmesan cheese I'd sliced and wrapped in wax paper. This little rectangular container was meant to be a memory trigger snack for her. I had always known my grandmother to love all three of these things. I do not know that it worked to trigger any memories, but she did seem to genuinely enjoy it.
When our snack and our game of gin rummy (always gin rummy) was up, we made our way to the second floor where, according to the schedule, it was time for word games. When we got upstairs the nice young lady who runs activities informed us cheerfully that they'd be watching ice skating instead of word games. Two rows of wheel chairs, some with oxygen hanging off the back, mostly all holding women, sat and watched the pairs of young, healthy bodies float across the ice. They liked the strong, broad shouldered young men who effortlessly lifted the beautiful women with good teeth and bright red lips. My grandma remarked with each new pair, how good looking they were. Yes, I agreed, they are very attractive.
Sitting in the room on the second floor on a Sunday morning, I ignored the smells, the wrinkles, the chin hairs and bed head and food stains on their shirts. I closed my eyes and reminded myself where I was. This is their last chapter, all of them. They are not going home. And for that moment on a Sunday morning in February, I was sharing their twilight with them. And that is the beauty I could take with me and think of I as drove the forty minutes back to my mother's house that afternoon.
I usually bring her a treat, chocolate, cookies, danish. I asked my mom to pick up some red pepper and fennel when she went into the store. Crosby had fallen asleep on the drive there so I sat in the car and listened to music quietly. In the morning, before I left, I cut up the vegetables and arranged them carefully in a container with tiny squares of Parmesan cheese I'd sliced and wrapped in wax paper. This little rectangular container was meant to be a memory trigger snack for her. I had always known my grandmother to love all three of these things. I do not know that it worked to trigger any memories, but she did seem to genuinely enjoy it.
When our snack and our game of gin rummy (always gin rummy) was up, we made our way to the second floor where, according to the schedule, it was time for word games. When we got upstairs the nice young lady who runs activities informed us cheerfully that they'd be watching ice skating instead of word games. Two rows of wheel chairs, some with oxygen hanging off the back, mostly all holding women, sat and watched the pairs of young, healthy bodies float across the ice. They liked the strong, broad shouldered young men who effortlessly lifted the beautiful women with good teeth and bright red lips. My grandma remarked with each new pair, how good looking they were. Yes, I agreed, they are very attractive.
Sitting in the room on the second floor on a Sunday morning, I ignored the smells, the wrinkles, the chin hairs and bed head and food stains on their shirts. I closed my eyes and reminded myself where I was. This is their last chapter, all of them. They are not going home. And for that moment on a Sunday morning in February, I was sharing their twilight with them. And that is the beauty I could take with me and think of I as drove the forty minutes back to my mother's house that afternoon.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Maggie's Questions
On the ride up Route 9 to see my grandma yesterday morning, Maggie rattled off a series of questions I was required to answer: Is Old Grandma ever going back to her old house? Why does she need to live in a hospital? Do people see her privates? What does she have for dinner? I explained to her that Old Grandma (the name she made up when she was three) lives in a nursing home because she needs extra help with bathing and fixing her meals. This answered most of her questions, but of course, also led to more. I distracted her with a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up apple turnovers for grandma.
It was an interesting visit for me, one where I was more an observer than a participant. Maggie and my grandmother played cards and snacked on pastry and held hands. I told Maggie that my grandma was there the night I was born and Maggie looked at my grandmother for confirmation. For a second my grandma said nothing and my heart sank, that she had lost such a special memory. And then she looked at me and winked and smiled at Maggie and said 'Oh yes, I was there!'
When we left I insisted my grandma allow us to take her upstairs to the second floor where trivia was taking place. I was delighted to find out that it was a giant crossword puzzle on a dry erase board. They were close to done with their first puzzle and had a few spots they were stumped by. The woman leading the activity asked my grandma if she knew the answers, and she did! Three correct answers in a row! I was thrilled. I kissed her and whispered that I'd be back soon and tiptoed out of the room with Maggie's little hand in mine.
It was an interesting visit for me, one where I was more an observer than a participant. Maggie and my grandmother played cards and snacked on pastry and held hands. I told Maggie that my grandma was there the night I was born and Maggie looked at my grandmother for confirmation. For a second my grandma said nothing and my heart sank, that she had lost such a special memory. And then she looked at me and winked and smiled at Maggie and said 'Oh yes, I was there!'
When we left I insisted my grandma allow us to take her upstairs to the second floor where trivia was taking place. I was delighted to find out that it was a giant crossword puzzle on a dry erase board. They were close to done with their first puzzle and had a few spots they were stumped by. The woman leading the activity asked my grandma if she knew the answers, and she did! Three correct answers in a row! I was thrilled. I kissed her and whispered that I'd be back soon and tiptoed out of the room with Maggie's little hand in mine.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
And they all sang
I stopped drinking at 24. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. It would be several years later before the desire to drink was completely lifted. I had always been a pleasure seeker, a comfort seeker, whether it was food, or booze or men or shopping. I liked to feel good. Only in sobriety did I discover the benefit of feeling shitty, of actually allowing myself to feel everything life has to offer.
The experience of watching my grandmother slip down the dark hole of Alzheimer's has been the essence of what getting sober is all about: being able to show up for other people when they need you, even if you don't always want to. An alcoholic is a selfish creature, causing damage nearly everywhere they go. I remember a Saturday evening a lifetime ago when my then husband and sister in law and I took the train up to my mother's house for Mother's Day weekend. I showed up drunk and angry. Drunk because I had worked a brunch shift earlier in the day and drank my way through the entire eight hour shift. And angry because my husband and his sister accused me of being drunk. We all went out to dinner that evening and everyone refused to order a bottle of wine. I was livid. I do not recall the Mother's Day the year after that.
I am hoping my grandmother makes another Mother's Day. The nursing home has a nice outdoor area that would be a great place to have a picnic with the kids and her in the spring. I did not bring the kids with me today, it was just the two of us, the way it used to be, and it was one of the best visits we've had in awhile. We played gin rummy for half an hour AND SHE WON! Granted, I may not have played like my life depended on it, but we had fun. We snacked on rugelach I'd brought and talked about my grandfather who passed away in 1991. When we were finished with cards she allowed me to take her upstairs where it said on the schedule that trivia was taking place. We were late but no one seemed to care. She was invited in and I pulled up a chair and listened as the residents played name that tune. It was beautiful to see these elderly people recognize the songs and begin to sing them. My grandma remembered a few and would shout out the title of the song. 'America the Beautiful' played and many of the residents sang loudly in unison. It gave me the chills and is something I won't soon forget. What a special visit.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
It all goes by so quickly...
How is my oldest child eight years old? And how am I (much) closer to forty than thirty? I have been divorced far longer than I was married. In the past five years I have logged more time with regulars at my restaurants then I have with my extended family.
Life is not how I thought it would be, it's simply what it is.
I know that it is all going by far too quickly for my liking. When I had my first baby a man that I had once babysat for told me to enjoy it, he said the days go by so slowly and the years go by so quickly. At the time I had a very sick baby who barely slept and cried all day. I couldn't wait for these days to be over, I had no ability to savor the moment, I was exhausted and overwhelmed.
The next two years, adding another baby to the family, selling a house, opening a restaurant, moving twice.....did not encourage me to slow down and soak in the details of every day. Not to say I was unhappy, quite the opposite. But everything seemed like work, tasks I had to accomplish in order to keep the train on the tracks. I had gone from zero kids to two kids in 19 months, as well as becoming a business owner. It was a lot to take in.
And now what I wouldn't give to have one of my girls be a toddler again. Or go back eight years and have my grandmother back. As I was rocking Crosby to sleep last night I remembered a CPR certification pin I found in my grandma's jewelry box a few weeks ago. I was surprised to see it because I don't remember her ever talking about being certified. I wondered if she did it when my grandpa was very sick. And then I thought I should call her and ask......and then I remembered. It made me hold my breath for a second, the realization that I can't just pick up the phone and call her. It's what I've said about Alzheimer's many times before on this blog, that it is a slow death for the family where you lose the person you love little by little.
One of my friends lost her sister this week, suddenly, with very little warning. It is a reminder to me how fragile life is and how deeply loss is felt when a loved one is gone.
Rest in Peace Paige Thomas.
Life is not how I thought it would be, it's simply what it is.
I know that it is all going by far too quickly for my liking. When I had my first baby a man that I had once babysat for told me to enjoy it, he said the days go by so slowly and the years go by so quickly. At the time I had a very sick baby who barely slept and cried all day. I couldn't wait for these days to be over, I had no ability to savor the moment, I was exhausted and overwhelmed.
The next two years, adding another baby to the family, selling a house, opening a restaurant, moving twice.....did not encourage me to slow down and soak in the details of every day. Not to say I was unhappy, quite the opposite. But everything seemed like work, tasks I had to accomplish in order to keep the train on the tracks. I had gone from zero kids to two kids in 19 months, as well as becoming a business owner. It was a lot to take in.
And now what I wouldn't give to have one of my girls be a toddler again. Or go back eight years and have my grandmother back. As I was rocking Crosby to sleep last night I remembered a CPR certification pin I found in my grandma's jewelry box a few weeks ago. I was surprised to see it because I don't remember her ever talking about being certified. I wondered if she did it when my grandpa was very sick. And then I thought I should call her and ask......and then I remembered. It made me hold my breath for a second, the realization that I can't just pick up the phone and call her. It's what I've said about Alzheimer's many times before on this blog, that it is a slow death for the family where you lose the person you love little by little.
One of my friends lost her sister this week, suddenly, with very little warning. It is a reminder to me how fragile life is and how deeply loss is felt when a loved one is gone.
Rest in Peace Paige Thomas.
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