Last night I brought dinner over to my grandmother’s apartment and hung out with her for an hour or so. I’ve decided that I need to spend more time with her, no matter how much it bothers me. Because I’m not doing it for me, I’m doing it for her.
She has lived alone since my grandfather died from cancer in 1995. She never made any friendships outside of her relatives, because she believed that her husband and her family were her first and most important priorities. Unfortunately, all the family members of her generation have died. She is the only one left.
She only held a job outside her home briefly, before she married my grandfather. Other than sewing and housekeeping, she never had any hobbies or interests. My parents and I have tried to convince her to go to a local senior center, with the hopes that she would make some friends and benefit from the social interaction, but she refuses, saying, “But I don’t KNOW anyone there! It would be a bunch of strangers and me.” Maddening. So instead, she literally sits in an armchair in front of her television from sunrise to sunset, watching the Game Show Network and reruns of Hawaii Five-O and Magnum, PI. Her legs have gotten weak from disuse, so she won’t even walk the half-block from her apartment to the Rite Aid drugstore at the corner of her street to buy a newspaper. She has never driven a car, so she is dependent on my parents and, less often, my self-centered aunt who lives in south Jersey to take her to the supermarket and to doctors’ appointments. It’s a sad existence.
In the past couple of years, she has begun a downhill slide. It’s really hard for me to watch. Her doctor believes that she has had a few mini-strokes. Nothing major, but enough to affect some of her motor skills and some of the executive function of her brain. She has been diagnosed with early Alzheimers. Last year,she mailed us two Christmas cards, both with Brian’s name spelled “Byron.” She’s starting to forget to balance her checkbook properly, so my father has taken over her bill paying. She also hasn’t been taking all of her (many) prescriptions on a regular basis. Worst of all, she has been having frequent episodes of loss of control of her bowels and bladder, which I know must be a terrible and humiliating experience for her.
When I was a kid, both my parents worked, and she was my primary caretaker before I was old enough for school. I have so many memories of her; she was strong and vital and animated. Now she’s just a shadow of her former self. It breaks my heart.
Last night, I brought her veal Parmigiana and spaghetti from the Italian place up the street from her. As I sat next to her, eating my lobster ravioli, I watched her struggle to cut the veal into edible pieces. At one point, I interjected, “Can I help you with that, Grandma?”
She ignored me and kept doggedly sawing away at the veal cutlet.
A few more minutes passed, and she still hadn’t made any progress, so I again said, “Let me get that for you.”
Resigned, she slowly released her weak grip on her knife and fork, and I stood over her, cutting up the veal into bite-sized pieces. It was then that I was struck by our role reversal, and my heart lurched. Was it really so long ago that she cut my meat for me? How had things gotten to this point?
I quickly finished cutting her veal and excused myself to the bathroom, where I quietly cried.
In My Head
