I never know which grandmother will greet me at the door. Will she be the wounded one with the hair trigger? Or will I have to coax from the bed a woman who coughs, sleeps, and apologizes her way through the day?
This week, I was delighted to become re-acquainted with an old friend. A smiling, good-natured lady was waiting in the breakfast nook for our arrival. She bore a close resemblance to the grandmother I remember from my childhood.
Dementia is disorienting for everyone involved. I had not realized how tense I was about the trip to Dallas with Bug until about halfway through the second day. It took me this long to notice my grandmother had not lost her temper with my son or me. Sure, she asked a dozen times if I had the garage door opener. For this visit, she had latched onto a recollection of arguing with a neighbor boy about the driveway of her childhood home. Each telling, the first telling. But through all this, she was still smiling and bobbing along the surface of whatever familial chaos unfolded around her. I felt my shoulders relax. Maybe she would, in fact, make it through our visit without morphing again into one of those other women who inhabit her skin.
My grandmother turned 91 on July 5th. She is living most of the time in her own house. With assorted relatives and hired hands cycling through to refresh the contents of the fridge and ferry her to doctor’s appointments, she is managing much better than anyone expected. Despite the fact that the calendar has become nothing more than wall art, she can still remember which grandkid and great-grandkid belongs where and to whom. She kvetches over the Dallas Morning News every day, feeds the birds in her overgrown back yard, and occasionally remembers to eat.
We had a 4th-of-July barbecue and birthday party with family up the road. Bug chose a singing card. He danced around the house to “I like to move it, move it,” shaking his booty as laughter rained down. Another grown grandson helped with the grill. We ate burgers and let the lady reminisce. Bug reversed the order of the candles. Grandma turned 19.
The next afternoon, I deposited Bug with a generous aunt for a date with my grandmother. She doesn’t have the stamina for much these days, but she can still rally for a ladies’ lunch at Neiman Marcus.
I would rather eat beef jerky from the Mobil Short Stop than lunch at a store filled with things I can’t afford and will never have occasion to wear. Strolling through Neiman’s, however, is the old girl’s giddy pleasure. “Oh, isn’t this just lovely!” Grandma cooed and oohed over the Louis Vuitton display, touching the buttery leather. The sophisticated gleam of the store widened her eyes and her grin. My gut contracted with envy as I watched trim man in a suit indulge his blond companion in a search for the perfect Prada bag. My grandmother noticed only the exquisite order of the jewelry counter.
I cannot understand this kind of appreciation for the unattainable. A woman who spends most days decked out in a bathrobe was lingering over a $2000 Roberto Cavalli sheath designed for someone with the figure of a prepubescent boy. While she stroked the hummingbird printed into the aquatic blue fabric, I squirmed in my consignment store sun dress and DSW sandals. Next to Lalique wine glasses, turtle-shaped salt-and-pepper shakers encrusted with rhinestones, and distressed outdoor furniture, my grandmother chatted up employees and gushed in wonder at the beauty of it all. “Do you believe it? Here I am, 91 years old,” she told the salesgirl over a mirrored display of crystal bud vases. “My granddaughter came all the way here just to take me out to lunch.”
“You have a lot to be thankful for,” the salesgirl grinned.
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” she said, resting her thin hand on my shoulder.
My grandmother counterbalanced every ounce of my covetousness with an equal measure of joy.
We made our way up to the third floor café where we sipped tiny cups of warm broth and broke open steaming popovers. The servers and manager dipped and fled, quick as dragonflies. They refilled our glasses, delivered dishes of radiant salad greens, and swept the crumbs from the table. They made sure the birthday girl knew her mere presence was a gift.
Swallowing gets harder as you age. Appetite keeps pace with the metabolism of the sedentary. It took my grandmother nearly an hour and a half to work through a third of her Cobb salad. She talked instead. “Those neighbors called in county engineers to build that cussed driveway,” she said. “They weren’t road builders. What a mess it was.” We were back in 1928, sitting on the curb with the neighbor boy, arguing over whose side of the yard belonged to whom. Somehow, this woman plodded her way through the 20th century, stumbled along the front end of the 21st, and landed in a big old house in the Dallas suburbs with a military pension and enough love to carry her through to the end.
A raspberry-studded meringue drizzled in caramel and cream lit on our table, candle dancing. My grandmother made her wish, keeping that one secret to herself. Then she clapped her hands dug in, rolling her eyes in ecstasy.
“This time next year,” she said, gesturing with her fork. “Right here.”
We all fret about her. We all worry and tsk-tsk about how sad it all is. But I sat right there and watched an ancient lady make a wish for her 92nd year. How many of us will have the luxury of drifting through the last chapter of our lives, buoyed by a craft comprised of such care? I don’t know about sad. Try rare and wondrous.
Finding any of my grandmothers waiting in that breakfast nook in a year’s time would be a blessing. It wouldn’t matter in the least which one is there. You don’t need age and Alzheimer’s to help you forget certain things. Just turn your attention away from the silly distractions and gaze in dumb wonder at what is right in front of you. Indeed, dementia disorients. A new orientation may not be such a bad thing after all.
“Right here,” I said, leaning across the table to scoop up some sweetness. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
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