Grandma placed her tiny, gnarled hand on my face. Her skin was soft and crinkly like tissue paper as she rubbed my cheek. She looked at me with a familiar sweetness that slackened my rigid posture. Even as my 6-foot frame dwarfed her petite body, I was again the little boy who craved his Grandmother’s affection and was consoled by it. This was a moment that had always made me pause as a kid. Her touch, her voice, and her presence had always reassured me in a gentle but deliberate way. I leaned into her hand, not wanting to be separated from her. She sensed this and placed her other hand on my arm. I wanted to look at her but continued to stare at the floor in her kitchen instead.
Her voice was shaky and weak, “It is for the best, Nate.”
I raised my head and looked to the left, focusing on the dilapidated stove with the missing knob and only two working burners. I almost laughed when I thought of the time I contorted my 3-year old body and hid behind it to avoid my mother’s wrath. It was Grandma who talked me into crawling out and confessing to biting my little sister. Her words shot straight as an arrow.
“Look at me, Honey. I need to know you’re okay with this,” she said.
I took her hand from my face and held it before me. It was so small, so delicate. I wondered how it could have raised four kids, cooked and cleaned for her family, and painted such beautiful pictures that now lined the walls of this old house.
Taking a deep breath, I looked into her watery eyes, “I want to be, Grandma.”
She walked over to the table and pointed to the chair opposite hers, “Sit down and we’ll talk. You must have questions. I’ll tell you what I can.”
I did as instructed, placing my elbows on the table and lacing my fingers in front of me. Our eyes met, and I smiled. “What about a second opinion? I’ll find someone and take you myself.” I settled a bit, confident that again I had fixed everything, jumping in with the solution that had escaped everyone else.
She shook her head and looked at me with not an ounce of aggravation. “I’ve seen three doctors who gave me the same diagnosis, Nate.”
This meant that this situation was not new, and that stung. I thought we shared all the important stuff with one other, at least when it came to her health. As busy as I was with work, I always took her calls. She was what tethered me to this town, this family. She saw that I was deflated and tilted her head. “This is what I want. Nursing homes aren’t so bad. Hell, I spend a lot of my time there now visiting friends and family.”
My thoughts were frenzied and my belly was tight. I sat back in the chair and tried to slow my breathing. God, I needed a cigarette or a drink; this was too much. I scanned my thoughts for anything that could make all this go away. I felt lost like I was swimming and being pulled under. The familiar ringtone woke me from my trance, and I reached for my phone. After muting it, I placed it back in my pocket and looked at my precious Grandmother. Her forgiving eyes studied my face.
“Okay, Grandma. Have you decided on a nursing home yet? We could visit a few if you like.” I was planning as I spoke; never a good idea but I did it anyway. “I’d like to. . . .“
She cut me off while shaking her head, “Already picked one. Thought you and me could go there today. You know, so you can see the place for yourself.”
I snapped, “Why haven’t you told me about any of this? I don’t understand! I could’ve helped.” My voice was sharp and louder than I wanted it to be. “I’m sorry, Grandma,” I said as softly as I could. “I’m just overwhelmed.” I walked over to the sink and looked out the window. The tire swing hanging from the sprawling oak tree looked lonely and tired from its years of service to my cousins and me. A painful longing spread throughout my body. I hated this moment.
“I know this is a lot on you, Honey. Wanted to tell you myself. Get it over with,” she paused to take in a breath. “But I don’t have time to waste. Alzheimer’s has no patience.”
I blinked and looked at the scratched table. The air between us seemed dense, stale. She was right, and I knew it. I also knew that my childish insecurities were not important right now. I did not want the hardest thing for her to be harder than it had to be. I walked back to the table and sat across from her.
“I would like to see it since I’m gonna be spending a lot of my time there, but only if you let me take you out for lunch. Then, maybe we’ll check out that new exhibition you told me about.” I grabbed her hand and held it tightly just as she had done throughout my childhood.
She laughed. “That’s my boy.”
My grandmother died eight months later. Her heart attack was a surprise to the medical staff at the nursing home, citing her strong and steady constitution. I saw it as a blessing that saved her from the cerebral prison that most patients with Alzheimer’s Disease inhabit. My family cried and shook their heads when they were told of her death, but they knew she had been lost months before her body finally joined her mind.
The dissent into that world had come upon her quickly; within a few months of her diagnosis, she was confused, panicky, and overwhelmed. Her short-term memory left first, marked by mere splotches of retention. This frustrated and embarrassed her, but she would add that at least she had her memories, the imprints of her children’s faces in her mind, and her art. When her long-term memory finally betrayed her, the depression swept up and enveloped her. She became despondent, hopeless. No one could get her to leave her bed; this Grandmother of mine who had seemed fearless, bursting at the seams with life.
I had visited her twice in the nursing home. The first time was awkward, but I knew she was with me by the way she hung her head as she said my name and gave me the same advice that she had since I was a child (It doesn’t cost anything to be nice and Remember to be grateful). I laughed and obliged, the reluctance I had about her being in such a place melting a little. The second visit was like stepping into a room with touches of familiarity but an overall feeling of something strange, not right. When I walked into her room, she recoiled in fear then demanded I leave. I froze, waiting for her to recognize me. Her eyes were glassy but intense. She pointed a spindly finger at me and shook her head. I stepped into the hall and tried to calm myself. My grandmother did not know me. I had convinced myself that she would remember me, her favorite grandchild. Her mind would allow me to remain there, giving her comfort as she confronted this demon of hers. A nurse approached me, suggesting she accompany me and assure my Grandmother that I was not there to hurt her.
“It happens like this sometimes, all of a sudden like,” the nurse said.
“She looks the same, sounds the same,” my voice was shaky as I spoke, “but that isn’t her.”
“Let me go in first. I’ll call for you, okay?”
I nodded and leaned against the wall. There was a throbbing in my head that signaled my craving for a cigarette. A month ago, we had played checkers and talked about going to the movies. She had wrapped her arm in mine and hummed as we walked around the lake. They had served chicken salad on toast for lunch; Grandma hated that they had the nerve to put grapes in it. Fruit in chicken salad, oh for Heaven’s sake, she had said.
The nurse summoned me, and I wobbled in like a colt trying to figure out the use of its legs. The old woman in the bed stared at me then smiled.
“He’s a handsome fellow, isn’t he?” Grandma said. We laughed and I finally exhaled.
“Hi, Grandma. It’s me, Nate.” I inched toward her. She studied my face then turned to the nurse.
“It’s okay, Linda. Nate looks nice.”
The nurse left, and I was alone with my lovely Grandmother who had no idea that I was that boy who had loved her more than he loved his own parents. For the next thirty minutes, I talked about myself and asked her about her day. There was never a sign that she recognized me; I was only this nice, handsome fellow that made her laugh. After she asked me to leave so she could take a nap, I walked out to my car and sobbed. She was gone.
I never went back. Each time I considered going, I would remember how rejected, how abandoned I had felt on that day she left me. The knot in my stomach would clench from guilt, but it did not drive me to visit her. I made excuses to people, said we talked on the phone every week. The lie made me sound like a dutiful grandson when I was no more than a floundering coward.
I stood at the back of the funeral home wondering why such a large coffin had been chosen for her. She was petite; she would not have liked this and it bothered me.
“Nice of you to finally show up for Grandma,” a familiar voice sliced through me and felt hot against my neck.
“Hello, Bridget,” I said to the sister I had never liked. I walked away from her and toward the coffin. My steps were sluggish, reeking of shame and self-disgust. Mustering balance, I reached my lovely Grandmother who looked like she was asleep. Dressed in a blue sundress and sandals, she looked like the woman who had held me as near to her as a child she had borne herself.
I reached out and touched her hand. The soft, wrinkled skin was cold but stilled my trembling fingers. I felt the tears roll down my cheeks, the tears of sadness and regret and loss. As I looked again at her beautiful face, I whispered, “Goodbye, Grandma.” Replacing her hand by her side, I turned and walked out of the church, speaking to no one. I stepped inside my car and reached for a cigarette from my pocket. As I drove home, I hummed and wiped the dried tears from my cheeks.