Drawing her bathwater, I
make sure it’s not too hot, not too cold.
I turn on the heater in the bathroom; she gets cold easily. I lay out her clothing. Today I’ll have her wear the light blue pants
and the pink shirt with dainty flowers all over it. The buttons on the shirt are too difficult
for her to manage; I’ll need to fasten them for her. She can manage her underwear, undershirt and
long pants by herself. It’s good for her
to do things for herself, but I don’t want her to get frustrated and give up.
“Come
on, Grandma, it’s bath time.”
Horrified,
“Oh, no! I don’t want to take a bath. I’m too tired.
It’s cold.”
“Grandma,
you have to take a bath. We’re going to
see the doctor this afternoon. The water’s
warm so you won’t feel cold. After you’re
done with your bath and have your clothes on you can snuggle under the covers
and have a rest.”
“Oh,
all right. Now, let me see here. Should I take off my shoes?”
As
a little girl I loved my Grandma Van Meter, was always thrilled to see her. She was loving,
affectionate, exciting, exotic, and some said eccentric.
When she came to our house she made time to read to me by the hour. As we sat close
by each other on my pink-striped bedspread I was Heidi, Snow White, and so many
others as they came alive through Grandma’s voice. I knew she could have been a famous
actress. Instead she chose to be my
Grandma.
She
read copiously. In her diminutive trailer many of the cabinets and shelves were
jammed with books. Nature books, fairy
tales, health books, books about foreign countries and more. Grandma was constantly researching a new
subject of interest. When talking with
my parents she’d pull out a volume for me to look through. “Here, my little Rose-pose. I know you’ll like the stories and pictures
in this book.” The complete set of the
Encyclopedia Britannica, including the children’s version along with children’s versions
of Science and American history were in our home along with a set of children’s
classic literature because she wanted my older brother and I to have the
advantage of a good education.
Today
when I glimpse the spine of a book the right size or color it transports me back
to the little trailer, cool and serene in pastel blues and greens. Even the knickknacks were tranquil. The two white porcelain doves and green jade
turtles were my favorites. I remember
again the books lining the shelves just waiting to fill my head with exotic
places and new ideas. I’m grateful that
Grandma modeled an enchantment with reading, learning new cultures, new ideas
for me. My love of reading is a gift she
gave me long ago.
At
my brother’s birthday there was always a little gift for me to open, and for
him on mine. Grandma realized how difficult
it was for a child to sit empty-handed watching someone else open their gifts. She taught me by example to care for another’s
feelings. I am thankful for that
unspoken lesson in love.
After
high school I lived here and there (mostly there) for eleven years. Grandma and I exchanged letters sporadically. But busy with my life, I didn’t take the trouble
to know her on an adult level.
When
I returned to the town where my family lived, Alzheimer disease had turned our
roles upside-down. Grandma no longer
journeys afar through her books. Reading
a fairytale to my daughter is beyond her ability. She often comes to me for comfort. Like a child, she’s afraid, but doesn’t know
why. Stroking her back, smoothing her hair, speaking to her gently; it is me soothing her now.
There
are many things I wish I’d asked before she became a confused child in a
withered body. Some of them are difficult, painful. Why did she love Uncle
Bob better than Mom? Why did she leave
her husband and children behind when she came to California? Mom says she was selfish and weak, and has no
reason to fabricate. I know these and
other ugly things are true. Inside me a
little girl cries. But love dies hard,
and a woman can forgive what a child can’t understand.
“I’m
tired.” She leans against me, head
drooping.
“We’re
almost done, Grandma. I have to rub some
lotion on you. Your skin is dry, and the
lotion will stop the itching.”
“Oh,
thank you. Do they pay you very much in
this line of work?”
“I
don’t get paid for this. I’m your
granddaughter.”
“You
are? You should still get paid.”
“I’m
Elaine’s daughter, Rosealee. You’re my
grandma. I do this because I love you,
not for money.”
“Well,
what a sweet girl you are. Bless your
heart.”
