The Visit

The women in my mom's family never die. I mean, obviously they die at some point, but they all seem to hang on forever. This scares me, because none of them have any quality of life by the time they pass on. This is especially true for my grandma, who will be 93 this year. Her body and mind have deteriorated to the point that there is nothing recognizable of her former self. I was always much closer to my dad's mom, and still cry occasionally when I think of all that she's missing. She wasn't ready to go- her mind was still razor sharp, but the cancer had eaten away all of her strength. It was painful to watch, but was over relatively quickly. My gandma L, on the other hand, has been careening downhill like an out of control wagon for ten years; since my grandpa died. She stayed in their home alone for as long as safety would allow. My mom and two aunts all visited daily to check on her and make sure she was eating.

Unfortunately, about six years ago, after a drawn out battle with siblings who live out east and never visit, my mom and aunts decided she had to have constant supervision, and they moved her into their local nursing home (which is very good). I have watched my mom age fifteen years since then- somehow all of the choices and bills fall onto her shoulders, and not one of her five siblings has ever thanked her. I think that the worst part for her has been witnessing age destroying a body that even cancer couldn't claim. In 1982, my grandma had a mastectomy, and was told to get her affairs in order, as she only had about six months to live. She attended her oncologist's funeral twelve years ago. This is a tough old bird, or at least she was. She had seven children, and raised six of them to adulthood. She has buried a husband, a four year old daughter, five brothers, and a sister. Through it all, she was solid. In spite of the fact that some of her children were only a few years older than some of her grandchildren, she always had time for all of them. She knew everyone's likes and dislikes. I never went to her house when she hadn't hidden a couple of Snickerdoodles in the bottom of the cookie jar for me. I was the youngest of the "older" grandkids, and was always the victim of some evil scheme created by my sister and cousins. While Grandpa would yell at them (I was his favorite), Grandma would give them that disappointed look and tell them, "all you really have in this world is family; I'm sorry that you don't respect that", which would stop the tormenting for a while.

Obviously, with that many kids, they never had anything extra, but I never heard her complain about doing without things. My grandpa was a lineworker for Caterpillar (if you want to understand the need for unions, take a look at Caterpillar), and my grandma worked in a greenhouse and took in laundry. The last movie they attended was in 1935, they only had five cars in their entire married life, and when clothes were threadbare, they were woven into rugs. But in spite of all of that, she was happy; she always said she was grateful for all that she had been given.

I try to visit her when I can, even though she doesn't know me any more. When the seasons change, I take pictures and put them up in her room so she can see what it's like outside. She especially likes the ones with flowers in them, and can tell me the name of every type of flower, what kind of light it needs and how much water it should have. But she doesn't know who I am or why I'm bringing her pictures. She begs me to kill her, and asks what she's done to make God so angry with her that he won't take her. I have no answer for her. I hold her hand and try not to cry; usually I fail. Sometimes she asks me why I'm sad, but mostly she doesn't even notice. Sometimes she talks to my grandpa, and the way she looks, I genuinely believe he's there. She'll ask him why he won't take her with him. I never hear his answer, but it usually seems to comfort her. I pray that soon he will take her with him, and she'll finally be able to rest.