We spent Thanksgiving with my family. My brother and his family hosted the day, and we had a nice lunch with them. It was much the same as ever -- not as big as last year's extended-family get-together, but nice and cozy this year.
But this year brought the feeling that, from here on, something will be missing. We'd normally have at least a token appearance from our grandparents, who live next door to my brother and his family. This year, we didn't see them.
For many years, my grandmother has had all kinds of ailments. Some of them came with age. Some of them came from being under medical care of questionable quality. It's perhaps best that I not go into details about that, but let's say that she's had ailments on top of ailments. My mother has tried to do things to help her mother receive quality health care, but it hasn't always worked out.
Last year, my grandmother ended up in the emergency room. I can't figure out if she had a small stroke, or what happened. The net result is that, since then, my grandmother's mind isn't what it was. The doctors don't think it's Alzheimer's (and given that we cared for my Alzheimer's-stricken paternal grandfather in his final months, we can say that was far different).
Still, the stories are heartbreaking. One moment, she's reasonably aware of a moment or what's going on. The next, she's in 1965 or somewhere else. My mother will drive her home from a checkup, and my grandmother will believe that the front and the back of the house in which she's lived for 60 years are two different houses. Her body works okay for 82, and it's not like there'd be anything that wrong with her brain. It's more like somebody went up in there and scrambled up all the wiring so that her mind doesn't work properly. She sees and perceives just fine, but just can't put the pieces together.
My grandfather is 86 and is as sharp as he ever was, still has that sort of gentle, good-humored John Glenn demeanor to him, hasn't lost a step. But what kind of heartbreak he must endure with each day, with a wife to whom so much in the world is now uncertain and strange, I can't begin to imagine.
I was never that close to my father's parents. My father came from a broken family; his parents divorced after his father returned from World War II. He spent his childhood in the care of various relatives until his mother remarried (to a stern, somewhat abusive man). He didn't reconnect with his father until I was seven. We had a few wonderful years of knowing him, visiting him at his summer home in North Carolina and seeing him at a great aunt's house at Thanksgiving, before the Alzheimer's began to take him away from us.
My father's mother remained nearby. I believe that deep inside she was a sweet person, and I saw enough kindness from her to reveal a good heart. But her life was never easy, and she was flinty to the end. My relationship with her was always awkward, to say the least, and at any family get-together I could count on at least one episode of being teased a bit too sharply. I always got the feeling I never lived up to what she expected. At the end, we were estranged. When she died, I hadn't seen her in three years (and even then, the last time we saw each other, we didn't speak).
In contrast, my mother's side of the family was always closest. That set of grandparents lived just across town, and we'd always have lunch there on Sundays after church. When my parents wanted a night out, they'd take care of us. They were always kind and loving, and my memories are, almost without exception, such sweet memories. I can remember so many Sunday afternoons on their front porch, in their swing, eating banana pudding or ice cream out of a Dixie cup. Family Christmas parties, and all the fun and chaos we could cram into the rooms of their tiny house. Mornings when I'd be too sick to attend school, so my mother would leave me with my grandparents while she went to work. The weekend when my grandmother had me spend the night with her while my grandfather was away, and even though I wasn't yet a teenager, we had this unusually deep conversation about what life may await us beyond this one. Christmas nights, when my grandparents would come over to see what my brother and I had gotten, and we'd give them their gifts and they'd have something to eat with us. It didn't seem like Christmas was official until that quiet little nightcap on things.
You always know the day will come when those things you loved, and took for granted, will no longer be there. That's always in the back of your mind, because that's how life works. But it doesn't make it any less stark when it does happen.
We had fun last Thursday, don't get me wrong. Two young nieces, full of life and enthusiasm, mean you never have a dull moment. And, for all our superficial differences, my immediate family is incredibly close. Still, you have no idea how much I would love, if even for just one more Thanksgiving, to hear my grandmother's familiar voice coming from the kitchen.
But this year brought the feeling that, from here on, something will be missing. We'd normally have at least a token appearance from our grandparents, who live next door to my brother and his family. This year, we didn't see them.
For many years, my grandmother has had all kinds of ailments. Some of them came with age. Some of them came from being under medical care of questionable quality. It's perhaps best that I not go into details about that, but let's say that she's had ailments on top of ailments. My mother has tried to do things to help her mother receive quality health care, but it hasn't always worked out.
Last year, my grandmother ended up in the emergency room. I can't figure out if she had a small stroke, or what happened. The net result is that, since then, my grandmother's mind isn't what it was. The doctors don't think it's Alzheimer's (and given that we cared for my Alzheimer's-stricken paternal grandfather in his final months, we can say that was far different).
Still, the stories are heartbreaking. One moment, she's reasonably aware of a moment or what's going on. The next, she's in 1965 or somewhere else. My mother will drive her home from a checkup, and my grandmother will believe that the front and the back of the house in which she's lived for 60 years are two different houses. Her body works okay for 82, and it's not like there'd be anything that wrong with her brain. It's more like somebody went up in there and scrambled up all the wiring so that her mind doesn't work properly. She sees and perceives just fine, but just can't put the pieces together.
My grandfather is 86 and is as sharp as he ever was, still has that sort of gentle, good-humored John Glenn demeanor to him, hasn't lost a step. But what kind of heartbreak he must endure with each day, with a wife to whom so much in the world is now uncertain and strange, I can't begin to imagine.
I was never that close to my father's parents. My father came from a broken family; his parents divorced after his father returned from World War II. He spent his childhood in the care of various relatives until his mother remarried (to a stern, somewhat abusive man). He didn't reconnect with his father until I was seven. We had a few wonderful years of knowing him, visiting him at his summer home in North Carolina and seeing him at a great aunt's house at Thanksgiving, before the Alzheimer's began to take him away from us.
My father's mother remained nearby. I believe that deep inside she was a sweet person, and I saw enough kindness from her to reveal a good heart. But her life was never easy, and she was flinty to the end. My relationship with her was always awkward, to say the least, and at any family get-together I could count on at least one episode of being teased a bit too sharply. I always got the feeling I never lived up to what she expected. At the end, we were estranged. When she died, I hadn't seen her in three years (and even then, the last time we saw each other, we didn't speak).
In contrast, my mother's side of the family was always closest. That set of grandparents lived just across town, and we'd always have lunch there on Sundays after church. When my parents wanted a night out, they'd take care of us. They were always kind and loving, and my memories are, almost without exception, such sweet memories. I can remember so many Sunday afternoons on their front porch, in their swing, eating banana pudding or ice cream out of a Dixie cup. Family Christmas parties, and all the fun and chaos we could cram into the rooms of their tiny house. Mornings when I'd be too sick to attend school, so my mother would leave me with my grandparents while she went to work. The weekend when my grandmother had me spend the night with her while my grandfather was away, and even though I wasn't yet a teenager, we had this unusually deep conversation about what life may await us beyond this one. Christmas nights, when my grandparents would come over to see what my brother and I had gotten, and we'd give them their gifts and they'd have something to eat with us. It didn't seem like Christmas was official until that quiet little nightcap on things.
You always know the day will come when those things you loved, and took for granted, will no longer be there. That's always in the back of your mind, because that's how life works. But it doesn't make it any less stark when it does happen.
We had fun last Thursday, don't get me wrong. Two young nieces, full of life and enthusiasm, mean you never have a dull moment. And, for all our superficial differences, my immediate family is incredibly close. Still, you have no idea how much I would love, if even for just one more Thanksgiving, to hear my grandmother's familiar voice coming from the kitchen.
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