My grandmother now lives in a geriatric facility that specializes in Alzheimer’s. When I visit her, she’s parked in a sea of wheelchairs in a large common dining hall, with low ceilings and a large, cloudy fish-tank, and it reminds me of when I used to visit old age homes with my elementary school and sing to them from that odd, classic repertoire that appeals to both the very young and the very old. I pause as I enter, wondering if she’ll still recognize me. So far, she does. She wears a belt tying her to her wheelchair, because otherwise she’ll get up– and fall. The other day, she ripped up her belt, and when my mother arrived a few hours later, she told her frantically that it wasn’t her, but the rabbi in the long white coat. I arrive that evening, and I ask her how her day was, and she tells me they accused her of tearing up her belt, but no, it wasn’t her, not at all.
I sit beside her as she eats her dinner, and I fight back my anger at how she treats my mother; at how she treated her since she was a little girl; at how she’s treating her now, when all her defenses are down, and the speech flows uncensored. I watch her, struggling with her knife and fork, and I soften myself, speak to her gently, hold her hand. I see her, defenseless, in a country where she doesn’t speak the language, in a foreign environment; in this total loss of control; in this complete, absolute dependence. And I grasp for a love that’s big and generous and greater than me- greater than a tallying of accounts, that can contain my anger and resentment and the deep, century-old betrayal that quivers and quakes beneath my lineage.
I wait in the hallway as a nurse from a faraway country gets my grandmother ready for bed, part of me ashamed that I’m letting someone else do this- the dark, murky parts of caring for a loved one as they age. She comes out, and tells me I can go in now. I enter the room, with its two beds, and its drab curtains, and the armchair in the corner that recalls hospital waiting rooms, and I approach my grandmother lying silent and still in her bed with the guardrail lifted up, like a young child.
She’s wearing a sleeveless nightgown, and her upper arms are draped with skin that’s thin and droopy and translucent with age. Her dentures are out, and her lips suck inwards, distorting her jaw, and making her look like this picture of my great-grandmother that hung in my grandparents’ living room; the resemblance is striking, except that it’s my father’s side of the family, and I realize that in that picture my great-grandmother must not have had teeth.
“It’s too tight,” she says, pointing towards her back where her nightgown is all bunched up. I pull it down, and smooth it out, and she breathes a soft, heartbreaking merci.
“Je t’aime, Mami,” I whisper, kissing her forehead, kissing her cheeks, bringing the covers up to her chin. “Moi aussi,” she whispers, and my heart cracks open into a million pieces that shatter all over her, and fall into the crevices of the covers, into the folds of her skin draped thinly over her upper arms, into her eyes, glossy and light like shallow pools.
And when I leave, and exit the white gate, and wait for my brother to pick me up, in his black jeep, with the AC and music cranked up, and his slicked-back hair, I try, as best I can, to pull it back together. Because this is the reality of it: we will all die. And in the face of this- our mortality, our inevitable death, our fragility, our endless, life-long, heartbreaking need for each other- we must, somehow, live.
[*Earlier posts about visiting my grandmother can be found here and here.]
Evelyn Sharpe’s French Chocolate Cake
From The New York Times via The Wednesday Chef
Makes one 9-inch round cake (serves 10)
1 pound bittersweet chocolate
10 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
Pinch of salt
1 tablespoon unbleached all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
4 eggs, separated
Unsweetened whipped cream (to serve)
1. Heat oven to 425 degrees. Line the base of an 9-inch springform pan with parchment paper.
2. Melt the chocolate gently in the top of a double boiler over hot, not boiling, water (or, alternatively, in the microwave).
3. Remove the melted chocolate from the heat and stir in the butter, flour and sugar. Beat the yolks lightly and gradually whisk into the chocolate mixture.
4. Beat the egg whites until they hold a definite shape but are not dry and fold into the chocolate mixture. The beaten egg whites should be folded smoothly, quickly and easily into the chocolate mixture. Pour into the prepared pan and bake for 15 minutes. Turn off the heat; open the oven door, leaving it ajar, and allow the cake to cool in the oven.
The cake is best served a little warm with unsweetened whipped cream.
Your most moving post.
Sent from my iPhone
Thanks, sweetie!
The folded/doubled cloth and the broken-yet-lovely cake serve as a moving metaphor for your narrative–just lovely…
Such a professor! Love your comments, Al.
Like the saying goes – getting old isn’t for the weak. It is tough on everyone. Thank you for sharing your thoughts.
Indeed. Thanks for commenting.
Beautiful post.
Thank you, Jess.
Good observation about great grandma’s photo. And I like the photo sequence.
Hey you! Do you know the photograph I’m talking about?! (It was of Meme Bachla)… Miss you!!
Glad to see the cake same out good. I’m sure it tastes amazing!!
I can totally understand what you are going through with your grandma. Your posts take me back a couple of years ago when I was going through the same thing. All I can say is enjoy her as much as you can. xo
Thanks, honey. xoxo
So moving. I can imagine myself sitting there with you. My heart goes to you and your mom. Sending you Love
Thank you, darling. Sending you lots of love right back.
I feel your pain. Dementia is such a cruel disease to all involved. Don’t be too hard on yourself. It is hard to forgive past difficulties, even as that person forgets it even happened. Just being there is enough.
Just being there is enough…. Yes. I’ve been trying to not be too hard on myself in all of these areas where life gets tough; to treat myself with kindness…. it does make things easier… thank you for your thoughtful and kind comment. xx
Beautiful post, Charlotte. It made me think about one of my grandmothers, who spent the last years of her life singing old French songs (“C’est la femme aux bijoux, celle qui rend fou, c’est une enjoleuse…”, “J’ai deux amours, mon pays et Paris…”, “Ma Ton-kiki, ma Ton-kiki, ma Tonkinoise…”) and clapping in her hands with the audience while watching TV games. I hope I’ll be like her if I get there…
Take care !
Thanks, Alain. Sounds like your grandmother was quite joyful! I’m sure that made it (relatively) easier for her, and for those close to her… Hope you’re doing well…
Charlotte, when my dear aunt went in the Alzheimer’s Center in Ramat Gan, my cousin recommended I read, Making Rounds with Oscar, by David Dosa, M.D. Beautiful story and helped me to accept the present. My aunt responds to music especially when I sing old songs she joins in and otherwise is quiet. Try it on your next visit. Sending you love and continued bon courage. xoxo
Hi Donna! I’ll look into the book. I’ve never tried singing to my grandmother. I’ll give it a try, although maybe, with my voice, it’s best for us both if I don’t! Lots of love to you. xo
Wow. So real. So much to consider.
When I think back to my childhood and Grandma, it was her cooking which I remember most. When you visited Grandma you were guaranteed something freshly baked. My favourite was her chocolate cake and no one made lemon butter, tomato relish or rosella jam like Grandma’s! She was a “bit of this and a dash of that’ type cook and was able to whip something up from next to nothing. Grandma’s favourite pastimes are doing crossword puzzles and going to Bingo. All of her granddaughter’s have at one time or another accompanied her to a Cent Sale or Bingo. It’s a family tradition (or a duty done with love).
My grandmother Nannie was a sturdy woman of Choctaw decent who cooked the most delicious food, but she passed on without leaving me a single morsel of the culinary wisdom and life lessons my mother’s generation took for granted. And, yet, her raspy voice of affection still whispers two things to me: security and chocolate cake.
Oh! So glad you still hear her whispering such comfort to you (security! chocolate cake!), but I do wish you had the recipes! xo