Grandma

 

               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.”