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.

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.

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.