No regrets

Today is my grandmother's 85th birthday. I wasn't terribly excited about the prospect of going to see her. I love her dearly, but as her health has declined, I've found it harder and harder to visit. When I was growing up, I would spend sunny summer afternoons at Grandmother and Papa's house with my cousin Ashley (nine months older than me, also an only child).

Grandmother and Papa fueled our imaginations -- one day, Ashley and I were detectives searching for clues as we traipsed down the street to the neighborhood park. A feather on the ground? It's a clue! A garage sale poster? That's a clue, too! The next day, we were spies burying coded messages in Mason jars in the back yard. (I've often wondered what happened to those jars, and if someday I could sneak into Grandmama's yard to dig one up.)

Anyway, as the years went on, Papa developed Alzheimer's. We were locked away somewhere in his memory, somewhere he could no longer go. When he was lucid, he'd talk about the war. Then he'd beg my father -- whom he mistook for his brother, Jack -- not to leave.

I always regretted not seeing him more in his last days. I'd tell myself that I was busy, and anyway, he didn't remember me. Or that I didn't want to see him that way, didn't want to see him die. But now, with the clarity of time, I realize those were lousy excuses, ones I never should have believed.

After Papa died, Grandmother's health worsened. When she and Papa moved to the retirement center, she lived in a condo as a self-sufficient woman. When she could no longer take care of herself, she went to a semi-self-sufficient nursing facility. Now she's in a skilled nursing facility where, she assures me, the nurses are nice, even if they don't let her pick out her own clothes. :-)

I wanted to take the easy way out today. Dad and his two sisters had planned a family party at the nursing home, and I thought I might call her to wish her a happy birthday. The old excuses were threading their way back to me: I was busy and tired, and anyway, I didn't want to see her deteriorate. But then I realized my time with her was running out, and if I didn't do something, I'd be saddled with more regret.

So after work, I went to the nicest florist I knew, chose some Gerbera daisies, a couple of red sunflowers (yes, red!), and several long-stemmed roses. When I got to the nursing facility, Grandmother was sitting alone at a table. I knew she could hardly speak in sentences anymore, but I told myself that Mom and Dad would be there in 15 minutes and the party would start. Until then, I surmised, I'd make small talk and let her slowly put words together.

Her first question was about Paul -- how was his doctorate going? I laughed to myself, because she's always liked him a lot. And I laughed because even though her speech was slow, her mind was clear as a bell.

Everybody was (very) late for the party, so I ended up sitting in the lobby talking to Grandmother for nearly an hour. But it was okay, because she told me her memories of Downtown Memphis a half-century ago, how the now-vacant buildings used to be so beautiful and busy. She talked about her old house and her nurses and what she had for dinner. And I absorbed it the way I used to absorb her stories about gnomes when I was a little girl -- totally in awe.

Dad was the rambunctious son of a Navy officer, always doing something stupid like setting his eyebrows on fire or cracking his skull open. Grandmother managed to move the family from base to base every couple of years and keep him out of trouble (mostly). And she was strong and resilient: When they were relocated to Morocco, she learned to drive so she could go to the open market.

I see that strength and resilience now. I don't think she has any intention of giving up. And that's good, because now I know that the more time we are together, the more her stories become my own.

P.S. The pictures -- which are totally cool but don't warrant their own post -- were taken by a friend of one of my editors in Vancouver, B.C. There are five more where those came from. Beautiful, huh?