I’d like to remember my grandma how she used to be, not how she is now.
Today, she’s an elderly woman who can barely walk. The mother of 4 and grandmother of 8 is still there, but shadowed by age and inability.
She used to take me to the city. She grew up in the Bronx, and guided me through the concrete grid to broadway shows, museums, and toy stores. She spoiled me with M&M’s from Times Square and new outfits for my American Girl Doll.
Now, she sits in the same padded wicker chair everyday. She sits on a garbage bag in case she soils herself. She wears diapers now.
She used to change my diapers. My sisters’ too. She took care of the three of us, in lew of daycare. She had dolls and a kitchen set in her basement. I liked to read from her selection of picture books, where my mother’s name is scribbled on the inside cover in black crayon. My favorite was “Robert the Rose Horse”. Grandpa liked “Linus and the Great Big Pumpkin”.
Grandma still likes to read from time to time. I was heading to the library during one of my visits and asked what books I should pick up for her. “I write down all the books I read in that notebook,” she said. I flipped through the little notebook, but I couldn’t read a single word. The letters of her once perfect script that filled out hundreds of birthday cards were too small, completely illegible.
I used to go over my grandparents’ house for dinner at least once a week. My grandma made homemade meatballs and sauce, spaghetti and garlic bread - my favorite. Grandpa grated fresh parmesan cheese, and the radio crackled alongside the warm smells.
Grandpa does all the cooking now. And the cleaning. And the driving. He keeps track of her medicine, which sometimes she forgets to take. Everytime she gets up he needs to help her, but his arms aren’t that much stronger. He hides it pretty well, but taking care of her exhausts him.
I used to lie in bed with Grandma when I was really little. When I woke with the sun, and climbed into bed for a story before breakfast. She has the same green bedspread, only I’m too old to lie with her anymore.
I once heard that old people smell because their bodies are decaying. I can’t stand that thought. My hand rested on my cheek, and I caught a whiff of grandma. My nose scrunched in distaste. It was the hand that guided her walk, the hand that lifted her from her seat and helped her from the car. The smell of death rubbed off on me and I couldn’t scrub it away.
I call my grandparents every week. It’s better to call after lunch to give grandma’s medication some time to kick in. I do my best to make her laugh but sometimes she rushes me off the phone. I think she gets uncomfortable that she can’t hold a conversation as well as she used to.
This Christmas most likely was her last. She sat on our green armchair dozing off, her head bobbing from Parkinson's. My grandpa started to cry. "It's so sad to see her like this." I didn't know what to do. I still don't.
She's not going to be here for much longer. But as we watched Mary Poppins on Christmas, and I saw her smile at the screen, I realized she's always going to be here. Whenever we watch an old favorite film, or make spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. When we flip through photo albums or think about our childhood. My sisters and I have the best grandmother, and we always will.