I took a trip this weekend to Dublin with two friends. It was my first trip across the Big Pond and I was feeling a bit nervous. We arrived at our hotel on Friday morning about 10 a.m. I stepped out the cab, looked down and, there it was, a nice shiny one cent Euro.
Pennies from heaven. This morning, I realized it was a penny from Grandma, who would have loved that I made a trip to Ireland. I wrote about my relationship with my grandmother on my personal blog a few years ago; with Grandma on my mind, I thought I’d share our story with you today.
My relationship with my grandmother didn’t really start until she turned 95 (my age is irrelevant) when her health worsened and I decided I didn’t have much time left to learn her life story.
During my childhood, my grandmother lived, at most, a 30-minute car ride from us. We saw her when we were children, but only when she and my parents were getting along. And that didn’t happen very often. My grandmother had very definite ideas of how my parents should live their lives–especially how many children they should have. She thought two would be a perfect number. My mother wanted seven. My parents settled on five. My grandmother acknolwedged the first two; the last three, not so much. I was No. 4.
My prevalent memory of my grandmother as a child occurred probably when I was seven or eight. My older sister–and my grandmother’s favorite–had made plans to spend a Friday night at my grandmother’s. But, she had forgotten about a Girl Scout meeting that would take place that very same night, a meeting she couldn’t miss, she told my mother. My mother suggested that I go instead. Wow! Was I excited! Time alone with Grandma!
So, my mom called my grandmother. Marianne can’t make it tonight, she explained. But Denise can. Would that be okay?
My grandmother said, “If Marianne can’t make it, I don’t want anyone.”
Oh.
As we grew up, she attended my brother’s wedding, but neither of my sisters’ and not my other brother’s. I saw her a handful of times in my mid 20s and early 30s.
Until she had a health scare at 95 and I was frightened that she would die and I wouldn’t know her. So, I committed to visiting her in order to really understand who she was. If I know my grandmother, then I know my father, then I know myself.
Because she needed more care than could be provided in her apartment, my grandmother moved into a skilled nursing facility. More involved care meant the right prescriptions for all her problems. She began taking anti-depressants. Without them, she wasn’t a very nice person. With them, she was.
I treasure those visits with her. I loved the stories she told of a young girl growing up in Chicago, of her parents and her siblings, of raising my father and uncle.
Her eyes would light up whenever I entered her room. On several occasions, I arrived as she napped on her bed. I would gently wake her. “Oh, I was just dreaming about you,” she would say. “I was so hoping I would see you today.”
Wow!
She was a devout Catholic, with Rosary ready at all times–except when she misplaced it, which, as she became frailer, seemed to happen daily. When she wasn’t holding her Rosary, she was holding her tiny statute of St. Anthony (the patron saint of lost and stolen items) asking him for help in locating her beads.
St. Anthony usually returned her beads. I also think he returned us to each other.
Oh Denise, what a beautiful and touching story! I’m so happy you had this special time with your Grandmother to get to know one another. I think you must have wound up being her “favorite” in the end.
Did you write down or record in some way the childhood stories she told you? I wish I had recorded more of my parents’ stories, but when I was younger the tales weren’t as “vital” to me and then I thought I’d always remember the family lore. I’m finding now though that I don’t remember all the details and wish, just wish, I could ask them to tell those stories again. Dad’s gone and Mom’s dementia makes her unable to do so.
And lucky you — getting to go to Ireland for a weekend!!! WOW! And you’re one of 5 kids. It’s nice getting to know you more.
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Hi–My grandmother wasn’t much a story-teller (she did tell a few, which I haven’t written down yet, but I will–thanks for the nudge) but what she showed me was her pain. She seemed so void of kindness when we were children. To gain a perspective of her as a woman in pain was really helpful because I could see that her actions in my childhood were a result of her pain. In other words, it wasn’t about me. I miss her. I get teary-eyed thinking of her. I feel so lucky to know that she had a very special love for me. It’s never too late.
I had to smile at the “pennies from heaven” thought. My dad LOVED to find coins anywhere. He was always watching for them on the ground, checking the change pockets in pay phones and coke machines, and thrilled whenever he would succeed. A few weeks after he passed away, my mom spotted a penny on the floor. Remembering an old story I had heard, I told her it was a hug from dad and she was thrilled at the thought. Now, five years later, each time she spots a coin, she thinks of that, smiles at me and says, “Another hug from dad.”
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