My grandmother died at 98 in November 2004.
My relationship with my grandmother didn’t really start until she turned 95 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.
Wow!!. What a great story. Talk about forgiveness!!..You gave yourself the greatest gift in the world. Had you been angry and just let your grandmother pass away like a lot of people would have done you would have lost out on this special opportunity to meet her and get to know her. Your kindness towards your grandmother made her love you so much!. Im also Catholic and I truly thank God for you and hearing about your stories. You truly are an inspiration….Thank you so much for writing this. I feel like I know you so long and I never even met you. You have the ability to make people happy…you truly do!!….
Hi Donna–Ohhhh, thank you! I feel the same for you.