A Girl and Her Grandfather

Yesterday I went to visit my grandfather.  Our visits go like this:  I arrive between 4 and 4:30 p.m., and he calls his "lady friend" Winnie, who comes over, guided by her caregiver, and the four of us walk to the dining hall.  (They live at Morningside, the fabulous assisted living facility in Fullerton).  We wait to be seated, and often, we sit with another friend of theirs, Shirley, and the caregiver leaves.  The conversation at the table consists mostly of repeating things Shirley or Winnie have already asked, either a few minutes prior or on some previous visit.  Both of them are so lovely, saying things that make me feel lovely, like "Aren't you just so beautiful?" or, "Isn't that ring you're wearing just so lovely?"  And my grandfather dotes on Winnie, calling her "Sweetie," ordering a glass of chardonnay for the two of them to split, giving her his French fries even though she didn't order any for herself because she didn't want any and so ordered the spaghetti instead, which she did not eat.  I sit there and try to take it all in, because I know, that even though some of what's happening amuses me, there will come a time when my grandfather will be gone, and I will long for those silly moments with these lovely people at this square table with the white tablecloth and a little vase of fake flowers in the middle next to the salt and pepper shakers--in this room where elderly people congregate for their evening meals--where I must repeat the things I say two or three times, and where the pace of life is much, much slower. 

This place, not just the dining hall, but this whole place, from its man-made lake and water-spouting fountain and its fifteen-foot putting green to its heated, gated pool and newly built recreation hall, is a microcosm of its own--a world within the world we know so well that races past us in a flash of busy schedules and multi-tasking measures.  This place has brought me much solace because here, my grandfather has found a safe haven in his sunset years.  My grandfather and grandmother moved to Morningside in April of 2004; they had been wait-listed, and I remember worrying that they would not make it in.  My grandmother had had a nasty fall and was not recovering quickly.  Morningside's policy is that in addition to being able to afford entrance, you must physically "walk in."  They will not take you if you are bed-ridden or so far gone that you immediately need to utilize their skilled nursing wing, Parkside.  Once you're in, you can render yourself paralyzed in a minute and they will take care of you till the day you die, but you have to be ambulatory when you arrive.

My grandparents lived there together happily for seven and a half years, and then my grandmother got sick and died.  How often do we hear about couples who've been together forever dying within weeks of each other!  I was terrified that my grandfather would go downhill quickly without his lifelong partner by his side day-in and day-out.  But here he is, two years later, thriving.  He is sharp and smart as ever.  He knows what blogging and texting are.  He doesn't do them, but he knows!  He has macular degeneration, and he hears with the help of an aid.  He's had several skin cancers cut out of his face.  He now uses a walker...sometimes...as a precaution.  He still makes himself toast for breakfast, and some fruit and cottage cheese for lunch.  He still shops at the grocery store, and up until about a year ago, he walked to Stater Bros. himself to pick up a few things (now, he uses the ride service that Morningside offers, and they assist him somewhat).  He makes his bed every day and gets dressed every day (which is more than I can say for myself).  He keeps my grandmother's ashes in an urn on a shelf in his headboard; every time I visit, I go into his room and say hello to my grandmother.  I tell her I love her and I miss her.  Yesterday, my grandfather told me he still does, too, every day, tell her he loves her and misses her.  It is the tenderest thing I've ever known.  It doesn't get any easier for me.  Even though days and years pass, when someone I love passes on, I wear their absence on my heart like a barnacle.  The memories still exist for me, too, and I suppose that's really what the feeling is--a strange mixture of nostalgia and loss.  And I suppose the fact that I can feel this is what makes me cherish the time I have with my loved ones even more. 

Yesterday, I started writing a little biography of my grandfather.  A while ago I bought a little book that has some questions in it and space to write the answers grandpa will give about his childhood memories and his life.  After dinner, instead of going to Winnie's, which he usually does, to watch television and keep each other company (like he and my grandmother used to do), he sat with me, he in his blue Lazy-Boy, and I opposite him with my laptop.  I asked him questions like, What was your childhood home like? What are some memories you have of your mother and father? What hobbies and pastimes did you have? Were you a good driver? Did you have a nickname? At first, he had some difficulty retrieving memories, but then, they flowed more freely, and he smiled a lot, laughed easily, relished the opportunity to extract the past and spin nostalgia. 

We made it a little more than half-way through the questions, satisfied to resume another day in the near future.  But he wanted me to read through the remaining questions as a teaser of what was to come.  He listened intently and responded to each question with "I can do that one," or "I think I can do that one, too."  I was so tickled (a word my grandmother would have used) to think that I actually set this thing in motion, and I would not someday look back with regret for all I should have taken the time to do.  My grandfather will turn 92, and I like to tell myself he has many, many years left.  When I previewed the last question in the book for him, which asks, "What's next?  What do you have planned in the next chapter of your life?"  He looked at me for a moment, almost as if he didn't think he heard me right.  "What's next?" he said?  This is it.  This is the last chapter!"  Indeed, dear grandfather!  And if only every one of us could be so lucky to feel so content and to possess such wisdom, dignity and humility!  We laughed at his honest acknowledgement, and we kissed and hugged good-bye.  I left him feeling so full of love and light, so blessed to know him in this life.