My grandmother has been in and out of the hospital over the last few weeks, and it was ultimately decided that she needs to move from her two bedroom apartment to assisted living. My uncle, who has power of attorney and is the only person my stubborn grandmother will allow to see her in the hospital or accompany her on doctor visits, charged my sisters and I with grandma’s 24/7 care while he and his wife figure out arrangements for her care and living situation. 

Grandma Marcie is 94 years old, and is well known to many of my friends for her zany humor, her hospitality, her silken pajamas, and her White Zinfandel. She was a fixture in our family until about 8 years ago when she inexplicably snapped and threatened my mother and her now husband with a baseball bat. She hasn’t spoken to my mother since. She has not come to the weddings, the baby showers, the baptisms, or the birthday parties that have happened in the last 8 years.

I have forgiven my grandmother for her inexplicable anger toward my mother. As a nurse friend put it, “it sounds like your grandmother has a Psych element going on.” That’s an understatement. If grandma had been a wife and mother in a time where mental health was as advanced as it is today, she would probably have a few diagnoses and some strong meds. This is a woman who beat her husband with a frying pan, and was verbally and psychologically abusive to her children. 

But I didn’t come here to bash my crazy old grandma. I want to talk about the good memories, and the things I learned in the 20-hour shift I spent with her this weekend. 

Grandma Marcie moved close to us from Florida when my mom began working again after being a full time mom to my two younger sisters and I. She even lived with us for a time. Grandma was our nanny. The thing I remember most was her helping me learn to draw. I have her genes and encouragement to thank for my creativity. I have a memory of her and I sitting together at the kitchen table drawing an old time winter scene, complete with decorated trees, a playful puppy in a sweater, and a horse drawn cart. I remember sneaking up on her in the mornings and scaring her so badly she would yell out “Jesu,” which was one of the polish words she used frequently. Another Polish word she used frequently was “chochla,” pronounced “vshjoha” and meaning “ladle.” As in, “get down here for breakfast or I will hit you with the chochla!”

When Grandma got her own place near us she lived in a retirement community for active seniors. She had a darling little 2-story house with a beautiful garden she loved to work in. The bunnies that ate her flowers frustrated her endlessly, and she was always trying to figure out ways to get rid of them or scare them off. She once gave me a Nerf gun and told me to hide in the bushes with it until I saw one of those rabbits, and I was to shoot it “square between the eyes.” The entryway of her home had a miniature statue of David, and I recall once giving it a kiss right where there was an interesting little part at the top of his legs that stuck out in a funny way. I remember the way my mom and grandma laughed and laughed at that, and I wondered if that wasn’t a place you were supposed to kiss someone. 

One time when I was about 17 I was out driving around with my two best friends, and we encountered a car of 3 cute boys who followed us all the way back to my house. (Don’t worry, they were harmless, and we became very good friends.) My parents were out that night, but grandma Marcie greeted these boys, tipsy from the White Zinfandel and wearing her trademark silk pajamas, and repeatedly slurred, “Katie, offer these boys some nuts.” They all introduced themselves with the name Darryl, and grandma didn’t question it.  

I remember her food. Holiday meals especially, but any family get together was a reason to celebrate. She would roast a ham or a chicken or a turkey, simmer green beans with ham hocks, serve sliced cold vegetables with olives and gherkins on crystal serving dishes. She always had beets, either sliced on a serving platter or mashed with horseradish for a condiment called “kz’an.” She said all the men went crazy for it. I never ate it. Nor did I ever touch the scrapple she and my uncles loved for holiday breakfasts. When we traveled, grandma always brought a cooler containing sliced vegetables, hard boiled eggs, and a roasted chicken. Her roast chicken was famous among my college friends. 

When my parents decided to divorce, my grandmother stopped speaking to my mother and moved back to Florida. She sent my sisters and I letters and postcards telling us all about the cruises, the trips, the dances, and the dates she enjoyed while living there. My mother sent her letters pleading for forgiveness that went unanswered for years. When finally my grandmother decided to forgive my mother she bought a condo just a stone’s throw from the townhouse my mom had purchased when she and my dad separated. They were best friends again and they did everything together, until that day my grandmother threatened my mom with a baseball bat. Now she sits alone in that condo in Crofton with the occasional visits from my sisters and I. She hasn’t hosted a family meal in years. The serving dishes are all dusty. 

When I arrived at her condo at 4:30 on Saturday, following my youngest sister’s shift, I expected grandma to put me to work cleaning her house and doing her chores in the very specific way she does things. Instead, she sat, grey and wrinkled and shrunken in her reclining chair, telling me stories from her younger years. Most of them involved stool. I asked her at one point if there wasn’t anything I could do for her. She cocked her head at me and said, “I just want to sit here and talk.” So we did. 

Before bed grandma insisted on cleaning out her fridge and washing all the dishes herself. She probably didn’t trust me to do it the way she would: heat a pot of water and Dawn dish liquid on the stove, pour it into a small bucket in the sink, then use it and an old rag to wash each dish before placing them inside the dishwasher to dry. I helped a bit and did what I was told–“put the funnel back in the szafki (pronounced shahf-kah)”–and I mostly tried to make sure she didn’t fall. I implored her to take some medicine to combat the pain in her crumbling spine, but she refused. I waited until she was too tired to argue before I brought my vacuum cleaner in from the car and vacuumed up the thick layer of dust and thread that covered her carpets and had been choking me since I arrived. I plugged in my oil diffuser and diffused lemon oil in her bathroom as grandma drifted off to sleep in her chair. 

The next morning I awoke on the couch with the foggy feeling of a restless sleep and the questionable memory of hearing grandma moving about the house during the night. As I filled my water bottle at the sink, grandma shuffled in, hunched over, disheveled, and somewhat confused. She said nothing as she set an empty pill box on the counter and returned to the reclining chair in her bedroom. Seconds later I heard an insistent tapping coming from the room and I entered to find grandma rapping a brush on the table beside her, trying to get my attention. I approached her and she gently turned me around to face away from her, and jabbed her long, hard fingernail into my spine to show me the pain she was feeling, then she slumped back into her chair and mumbled “pain patch.” I applied the Lidocaine patch to the part of her back that has a golf ball sized indentation, evidence of where the arthritis has taken over. 

A few minutes later grandma was able to ask for a Tylenol, and a few minutes more she was able to describe the pain as someone digging a hot ice pick into her back. When the pain had finally subsided as much as it would, grandma asked me apologetically to give her a bath. 

After I had collected the specific towels and supplies grandma had listed, she undressed and I helped her into the tub to sit on the shower chair. What happened during the ensuing half hour was really beautiful. As I patiently, lovingly washed my grandmother, I thought about how special it was that I could care for someone who couldn’t care for herself. I massaged shampoo and conditioner into her salon-dyed, wiry hair. I spread lotion over her body and spent several minutes massaging her back and legs. She was so appreciative of this small thing I was able to do for her, and she thanked me profusely, offering me gifts of money, love, and prayer.

After grandma was dressed and settled into her recliner I knew she would fall fast asleep, so I ran to the store to buy her some more “bloomers,” her name for adult diapers. When I returned she was snoring away in her chair. I took the opportunity to clean all her countertops and shelves and the fronts of the cabinets and appliances in her kitchen with an essential oil blend called Thieves that smells like Christmas . I also wiped the dust from the serving dishes displayed around grandma’s home. 

Given free range of the condo, I marveled at grandma’s brand of hoarding. The woman never met a piece of paper, cardboard, or disposable container she couldn’t find a use for. One whole cabinet was stacked high with disposable to-go containers. There were tiny pieces of paper covered in her beautiful nun-taught handwriting everywhere. Pieces of cardboard had been spray painted and used as table covers, wall sconces, deer antler mounts, towel racks, and shelving. Knick-knacks displayed were often glued to their respective shelves. Photos had been cut and pasted back together to show more faces present than had actually been present for the photo. My sister’s junior prom picture had the face of her senior prom date glued over. I guess grandma found him more handsome than the junior boyfriend. 

The last thing I did before I left my sleeping grandmother was walk out onto her back patio. It was beautiful outside, the summer heat was finally beginning to let up, and a lovely breeze rustled the staked tomato leaves against the arched trellis. A beautiful wrought iron table and chairs stood among the carefully placed flowers and vines. I wondered how a woman who carries such a strong, misplaced anger for her own daughter in her heart could create such a beautiful, peaceful retreat in her tiny sliver of a backyard. 

Back home I told my husband all about my stay with grandma. I remarked that all the stuff she was hoarding was blocking her Chi. He looked at me with an amused expression and said, “You should tell Marcie that. Tell the woman who lived through the Great Depression that all that stuff she won’t throw away is blocking her Chi.” I went on to tell him everything grandma and I had talked about, memories she shared, and how her health was declining. Grandma had told us long ago that when it was time for her to give up her independence she would give one of her granddaughters the money to build an extra room for her to live in. My husband and I decided that time had come, and much quicker than we had anticipated. 

We called grandma that evening, excited to tell her she wouldn’t have to move to an expensive assisted living facility with a bunch of strangers and overworked medical staff. Grandma thanked me for all I had done for her, laughed when she recalled seeing my “gypsy lamp” in her bathroom during the night, and turned down our offer. She said we had waited too long to make a decision on something she had proposed years earlier. 

I hope that stubborn old woman will change her mind and let her family take care of her in our own home, in a space she can call her own. I pray she will forgive and reconcile with my mother. I’m praying for guidance. I’m praying for her memories to stay alive in her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, who bring her so much joy. I pray that God works on her heart and shows her that the sweet, obedient, loving, selfless little girl who once called tombstones “too many stones” is still her daughter and deserves her love before it’s too late.