J.A. Hinkley
My grandmother always referred to death as "kicking the bucket," never as demise, loss of life, or a natural part of existence. She had a cat named Charlie who had dreadful kidneys, just like she did. They were both on dialysis. Grammie went to the clinic three times a week for half a day at a time, and Glenna and Richard came to inject fluids into Charlie every evening at about 7 o'clock. Charlie had real trouble walking and his hind legs curved in like a crowbar, but supported little, if any, of his weight.
Grammie had a stroke in September and when I went to visit her, she didn't remember me. I grew up next door to her and considered her one of my very favorite people. I wrote to her as often as I could when I was out of state at school, and she wrote to me in her beautiful, deliberate penmanship, final-draft quality, as was taught in the 1920s, even in Northern Maine one room schoolhouses. I was devastated and burst into tears when she didn't know
me, and while she was aware that something was awry, she didn't know quite what to do, because after all, she was in the ICU. I cried all the way home, and then all night. I went to see her a couple days later with my mother, and she seemed mostly back to normal, maybe even a little bit happier (drugged). She knew who I was, and seemed right on the ball, but had to stay in the hospital for a while because her legs were not strong enough to support her dwindling weight.
She later came home, under the condition that she would be under 24-hour surveillance. My aunt Marilyn lived with her and Ruth and Glenna, the nurse and the teacher, came almost every day to stay, and all the other children came at least once a week for many hours at a time. Grammie went into the bathroom one day and fell and had to go back to the hospital. This happened a couple of times. She came home, fell, looked like she'd been beaten by thugs (her skin bruised at even the thought of impact, just as "merely looking at a bed," as her doctor had said, meant pregnancy in her earlier years; a highly sensitive English woman), and went back to the hospital.
Charlie kicked the bucket a few months ago, which was a relief for Glenna and Richard, and Grammie was not affected much because she was in the hospital, and at that point was unaware that Marilyn's cat Leah was not the same animal as Charlie. She continued to talk about him as if he were alive long after he died. She had always said though, that she wouldn't know what she would do when Charlie kicked the bucket. She didn't want to live without her cat, her only constant companion since her second husband passed in 1980.
Most recently she had fallen and broken her wrist. She was staying at the Winship Green nursing home in Bath, with a roommate that she got along with winningly, which was somewhat rare. My cousin Miles had a baby recently and went to see her around Christmas to show her. Despite having 7 children of her own, as well as taking care of her younger twin sisters when she was just 13, she seemed to dislike babies, and felt extremely uncomfortable whenever someone around her had an infant, let alone asked her to hold it. When Miles came to visit, she was elated and requested to hold the baby, and looked at it and carressed it lovingly. She had forgotten her old inhibitions.
Last week during my school vacation, I was due to visit Grammie, but I decided not to because Mom told me she didn't remember who Glenna and Ruth were not two days before. I knew I wouldn't be able to handle that situation again, and I also knew it was probably one of the last times I'd see her. She should have died several months ago, but she didn't want to, perhaps because she was embarrassed of dying in front of anyone, or else she didn’t want to burden us with death. I didn't visit her, and I don't regret it, because I remember her the way she was when she was alive.
I associate her most readily with molasses. So sweet. She used Molasses for everything, on her pancakes, in Graham bread, in cookies. She bought it in brown gallon jugs, and when she finished the molasses, she made birdhouses out of the jugs, so everyone in the family had a molasses bird feeder. She was endlessly encouraging of me no matter what I did, saying, "Oh isn't that good?" or "Gee whiz!" after every puzzle piece I correctly placed when we did puzzles together even into my 20s. She was uncritically supportive of my brother, and who tended towards destructive activities rather than creative pursuits. She was one of few people who thought the absolute world of him, just because he was who he was. Grammie judged few on their actions, but on their true character, even if circumstances didn't allow that character to shine in a positive light.
I haven't cried the way I thought I would since Tuesday night when my mom called me well past her bedtime, and I knew something was up. I do find myself getting lost in memories, gazing into my minds eye when I oughtta be learning differential equations or error analysis, but I remember her feeling and get stuck in it, stuck on that black and white rug in the office, stuck on the plastic baggie of warm (rectangular) muffins I am bringing home for my mom; that bag that isn't closed because it will make the muffins soggy, and so I put my black rubber boots back on, the ones with the red stripe across the top and the small puncture in the rubber (so my feet will get wet) and I say good bye and run down the hill, over the stream via the little bridge Grampie made of rusting
metal tubes so the water can still run through, slam the door to my mother's house and we together slather butter on the warm muffins, and they taste awful good, and now we don't have to get dinner.
Grammie had a stroke in September and when I went to visit her, she didn't remember me. I grew up next door to her and considered her one of my very favorite people. I wrote to her as often as I could when I was out of state at school, and she wrote to me in her beautiful, deliberate penmanship, final-draft quality, as was taught in the 1920s, even in Northern Maine one room schoolhouses. I was devastated and burst into tears when she didn't know
me, and while she was aware that something was awry, she didn't know quite what to do, because after all, she was in the ICU. I cried all the way home, and then all night. I went to see her a couple days later with my mother, and she seemed mostly back to normal, maybe even a little bit happier (drugged). She knew who I was, and seemed right on the ball, but had to stay in the hospital for a while because her legs were not strong enough to support her dwindling weight.
She later came home, under the condition that she would be under 24-hour surveillance. My aunt Marilyn lived with her and Ruth and Glenna, the nurse and the teacher, came almost every day to stay, and all the other children came at least once a week for many hours at a time. Grammie went into the bathroom one day and fell and had to go back to the hospital. This happened a couple of times. She came home, fell, looked like she'd been beaten by thugs (her skin bruised at even the thought of impact, just as "merely looking at a bed," as her doctor had said, meant pregnancy in her earlier years; a highly sensitive English woman), and went back to the hospital.
Charlie kicked the bucket a few months ago, which was a relief for Glenna and Richard, and Grammie was not affected much because she was in the hospital, and at that point was unaware that Marilyn's cat Leah was not the same animal as Charlie. She continued to talk about him as if he were alive long after he died. She had always said though, that she wouldn't know what she would do when Charlie kicked the bucket. She didn't want to live without her cat, her only constant companion since her second husband passed in 1980.
Most recently she had fallen and broken her wrist. She was staying at the Winship Green nursing home in Bath, with a roommate that she got along with winningly, which was somewhat rare. My cousin Miles had a baby recently and went to see her around Christmas to show her. Despite having 7 children of her own, as well as taking care of her younger twin sisters when she was just 13, she seemed to dislike babies, and felt extremely uncomfortable whenever someone around her had an infant, let alone asked her to hold it. When Miles came to visit, she was elated and requested to hold the baby, and looked at it and carressed it lovingly. She had forgotten her old inhibitions.
Last week during my school vacation, I was due to visit Grammie, but I decided not to because Mom told me she didn't remember who Glenna and Ruth were not two days before. I knew I wouldn't be able to handle that situation again, and I also knew it was probably one of the last times I'd see her. She should have died several months ago, but she didn't want to, perhaps because she was embarrassed of dying in front of anyone, or else she didn’t want to burden us with death. I didn't visit her, and I don't regret it, because I remember her the way she was when she was alive.
I associate her most readily with molasses. So sweet. She used Molasses for everything, on her pancakes, in Graham bread, in cookies. She bought it in brown gallon jugs, and when she finished the molasses, she made birdhouses out of the jugs, so everyone in the family had a molasses bird feeder. She was endlessly encouraging of me no matter what I did, saying, "Oh isn't that good?" or "Gee whiz!" after every puzzle piece I correctly placed when we did puzzles together even into my 20s. She was uncritically supportive of my brother, and who tended towards destructive activities rather than creative pursuits. She was one of few people who thought the absolute world of him, just because he was who he was. Grammie judged few on their actions, but on their true character, even if circumstances didn't allow that character to shine in a positive light.
I haven't cried the way I thought I would since Tuesday night when my mom called me well past her bedtime, and I knew something was up. I do find myself getting lost in memories, gazing into my minds eye when I oughtta be learning differential equations or error analysis, but I remember her feeling and get stuck in it, stuck on that black and white rug in the office, stuck on the plastic baggie of warm (rectangular) muffins I am bringing home for my mom; that bag that isn't closed because it will make the muffins soggy, and so I put my black rubber boots back on, the ones with the red stripe across the top and the small puncture in the rubber (so my feet will get wet) and I say good bye and run down the hill, over the stream via the little bridge Grampie made of rusting
metal tubes so the water can still run through, slam the door to my mother's house and we together slather butter on the warm muffins, and they taste awful good, and now we don't have to get dinner.
posted by SK at 3:41 PM
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