 |
By Louise Lannan |
My grandmother's hands are quite large. Their rough surfaces of wrinkled flesh and coarse veins are like lumpy hills surrounded by streams of purple and blue water. When I was younger, Gran's large, strong, hand would envelop my small, clammy one as we visited many of her favourite art galleries and museums. Gran had this incredible reservoir of knowledge; her mind was like a sponge, absorbing everything around her.
During every visit, we examined each piece of art. Her eyes actually lit up as she would recite the artist, date and history behind each of them, as if it were all some sort of sacred secret between the two of us. Gran had a certain passion, a genuine appreciation, I guess , for stuff like history and culture. It was pretty special.
Whenever Gran took my hand, each place we visited became a wonderland of serenity and enchantment, a place where pain and conflict didn't exist. The security and warmth from this cocoon gave me the impression that hurt and loss were obsolete.
............
"Daddy! Gran locked herself in the closet again." Tear stricken, my little brother Matt comes rushing down the stairs, clutching his beloved Mr. Bear. A dark cloud settled itself over the breakfast table. Dad's head slumps slightly into his shoulders.
Across the table, Mother clicks her tongue and shakes her head impatiently, staring intently at Dad. "Bob, this can't go on much longer," her voice was almost pleading. "Look what she's doing to us!"
With that, she threw down her napkin and left the table, scooping up Matt on her way out. Reluctantly, Dad turned to tend with things upstairs. Throwing me a last glance, I saw sympathy in his face. "I know this is hard on you, Jen; it's hard on all of us, but..."
.........
Closing the door behind me, I'm relieved to find out that I'm the first one home after school. Suddenly, panic grips me as I realize I'll be alone with Gran for the next hour. I'm scared, not of her; the doctor told us that Alzheimer's is a disease, that it is not to be feared, but I can't help being scared.
From the next room I can barely distinguish the muffled cries of a child among the loud voices coming from the television. Tentatively I approach. Curled up on the living room floor, Gran lies whimpering.
"What's the matter, Gran" I ask.
"My show's not on the TV," she sobs.
"What show?"
"Wheel of Fortune," she pouts.
I look into her eyes, searching for something that's not there.
"Do you remember when we used to visit all those art galleries and museums?"
"What museums?"
"Don't you remember how much you loved taking me there?" I'm pressing her, I know, but something inside me needs for her to remember, longing desperately for what once was; but I know it's hopeless.
"What are you talking about? I want to watch Wheel of Fortune!"
I look, searching in her eyes again and all I see is a void. They are scared eyes; they are the eyes of a child, filled with the slightest traces of a grand woman who once dwelled within.
........
Having fixed myself a bedtime snack, I stop before heading up the stairs, noticing a light from Dad's study. I'm about to knock when I see Dad's head slumped in his hands and I hear his quiet sobbing. I turn to leave.
"Don't go, Jen." He raises his head and gestures for me to sit down. "I know this whole situation with Gran has been difficult and I have some serious decisions to make. Your Mother has been pressuring me to send her to a home, but she's my mother, for Godssake!"
My throat tightens.
"But things have been getting worse, and I think the time has come to make some changes and think about what's best for the rest of my family. What do you think, Jen?"
I can't believe he's asking me this! I don't know what to say. My tongue is frozen and I can't mouth any words.
"Forget it. I don't mean to put you on the spot. Hurray up to bed now."
I look into his face and see that my father has aged in the last few months. There are dark circles under his eyes and lines of great pain and loss. He ruffles my hair and I hug him tightly.
...
One more stop on the way to bed. Gran's door is slightly ajar and the sight that greets me brings back a memory.
When I was younger and we would visit Gran in her old house, she thought it was a great necessity to teach me the Lord's Prayer. Solemnly we would kneel at the side of the bed. She would clutch her rosary as her pursed lips recited prayers. Perhaps it was the solemnity of the sanctity of the situation that always made this happening so intimate. In her room, Gran was immortal.
Returning to the present , I see Gran kneeling at her bed, clutching her rosary. After a split second, I tiptoe into the room. A silent stream of tears is running down Gran's face. She takes my hand. "I'm so scared Jenny ; sometimes I don't remember things; everything just gets so confused. I just want to be the person I used to be. I want to visit one of my old museums or galleries! What's going to happen to me?" she asks. I am crying with her now. Gently I wrap my arms around her. " I don't know, Gran." I barely whisper.
tgmag@tgmag.ca