A couple of months ago we went to the funeral of their eighty-something year old nephew, and today was the funeral for their eight-two year old niece. Funerals are sobering for anyone, but watching the eyes of my grandmother and her brother as they say goodbye to the people who have known them the longest is a different kind of sobering. Watching their sadness is -- different. They've said goodbye to so many people. My grandmother has lost her husband, both of her children, seven of her siblings - the list goes on. I just cannot imagine.
We so often say 'life is too short' - but to my grandmother, she truly believes her life has been too long. She apologizes for being a strain and 'living too long.' Of course I always explain we're thrilled she's still with us - even if she needs a little help. She struggles with Parkinson's making it impossible for her to take care of herself and the nasty disease now has her awfully confused in many aspects - but still sharp as a tack in others. It's really amazing to watch. She knows everyone's birthday, anniversary and date of death. She just last night told the story about living on Jackson Avenue and Austin Blvd, in an apartment where they used to wait for the landlord to leave so they could make waffles in the hall after going to the show (yeah, so she stole electricity). She recently first told me the story of how she met my grandfather who used to call her "Redtop." There was also a short story about when they were having a family dinner discussing Hitler - my mother as very young and butted into the conversation, offering her point of view. Her older brother, my Uncle Billy got irritated and challenged my mother, claiming she didn't know what she was talking about. She insisted she did, an argument to which Uncle Billy stated she didn't even know Hitler's first name. "I sure do!" insisted my mother - "Heil!"
I have not always had a stellar relationship with my grandmother. I lived with her in my later teenage years and while we both have always been confident of our love for each other, our relationship has always been, uhh, combative. And the last few years, where she'd needed more and more help: I've given her my best, and she's given me her worst. Nothing was ever good enough. The fighting never ended. And I've cried a lot out of frustration, anger and self pity.
Except for the last couple of months. When I wake her in the morning she reaches for my hand and offers a massage or kisses. She tells me there's nobody who can do anything as good as me - from putting her socks on to giving her a shower. She thanks me. Often. She praises me. She appreciates me. Out loud. Often.
I know what she's thinking (usually); and when she's having trouble with her words due to a recent (small) stroke, I'm the fastest to help her be able to communicate what she's trying to say. There's little bickering and less and less frustration for both of us. I make her feel safe, and she makes me feel fabulous about helping her.
I used to be irritated at the lack of visits she and my uncle receive. I felt like I was a martyr - doing what nobody else would or could. Alone (almost). Now? I'm grateful for the long weekend hours I spend with them, and the countless mornings before work and evenings after work -- because they won't be here for forever -- and once they are gone I'll be the single living person with the most (quantitative and qualitative) wonderful memories of them.
