These are the first four pages of my essay that covers a huge part of my life, my great grandmother.
If I Take Care of You, Will You Take Care of Me?
As
I sit in the bathroom, I immediately picture Gram sitting on the ledge of the
bathtub across from me fourteen years ago. For some reason, Gram felt that both
my sister and I needed her moral support when making causal trips to the
restroom. It is quite funny how that was where most of our catching up was. I
would tell her about the girl in class who stole my pink scissors, and she
would continue to tell me stories about her brother Vito, or her olive trees in
Italy. She even let me sing to her. I always thought I was destined to become a
future pop star; my voice echoing in the bathroom justified my dreams. Well, so
did Gram, she loved when I sang to her, even if I was singing about my crust
less PB&J sandwich I had for lunch that day. Everything that came out of my
mouth was valuable to her.
Although
Gram is my great-grandmother, no one ever knew the difference. Since my
mother’s mom passed away when Mom was just eighteen, Gram took on the role of
raising my mother, and helping my mother raise both my sisters and I. Gram
lived with my family and I since the day I was born, even longer than that; I
never knew what it was like to have a “teenager” as a babysitter. I didn’t care
though, and neither did Karly, my baby sister. Since we always had someone home
to take care of us, “play-dates” were always at our house. Both Karly and my friends
formed a special bond with Gram. Whether they were forced to eat her home
cooked meals or listen to her almost unbelievable stories about Italy, everyone
always seemed interested in what Gram had to say. Gram did everything for us.
Italian home cooked meals prepared at the same time every day, answers to my
endless questions, and a shoulder to lean on. The only thing she ever asked us
for was right before bed, which for her, was at 7:30 P.M. Karly and I went into Gram’s room together
every night, kissed her forehead, and handed her three grapes, green or purple,
she didn’t care. The nights we would forget she would ask, “Mama belles, can
you please bring me a couple grapes, my mouth is very, very dry.” We usually
always remembered though, always three grapes, if we brought her two she thought
we were being cheap. Those grapes at night was the only time Gram needed me, or
anyone else. I knew she was old, but she
was Gram, Superwoman, unstoppable, four feet and eleven inches of full Italian
blood…. just Gram.
After
eight years, the occasional bathroom hang outs began to fade. Gram was ninety three now, struggling with
Alzheimer’s. You know, she sometimes
would forget things we had told her, or where she hid her money. Luckily, her
inner Italian habits always lead her to finding her money under her mattress. Most
of the time, her mind was basically there. She started moving slower, taking an
extra forty five seconds to come up the back stairs. We didn’t use the front door;
Gram taught us that “Back door guests are best.” Her voice weakened in volume,
which was not necessarily a bad thing.
Having an Italian mother and great grandmother to talk over was always a
struggle for me, now I stood a chance. Her eyes grew more tired as the days
went on, along with her olive skin. Four feet nine inches now, she was still
going strong. Homemade meals prepared three times a day, sometimes a repeat in
meals throughout the week. Eggplant Parmesan on a Monday and Wednesday night,
who can complain about that? The meals took longer though, I knew she needed my
help. Although she never asked, I told her I wanted to learn for myself. Soon, I
became Gram’s little assistant in the kitchen.
“Hello
Richard!”Gram said to me as I walked in from basketball practice. Turning
around seeing that Richard was directed towards me, Kristen, I knew Gram was
beginning to feel her age. “Hi Gram.” I replied to her, finding it somewhat
humorous that she called me Richard, and feeling too sad to embarrass her with
my correction. Smelling another one of her meals, I opened the oven to see what
Gram had made for that night. A large oven stuffer, chicken, peas, potatoes,
and…. Chex Mix? I thought about it and knew that Chex Mix was never included in
grams famous oven stuffer. Asking her the reason behind her new special
ingredient did come across my mind, but I knew she didn’t know the answer to
it; one of the first times I realized that she could not answer something I
asked. The meals began to suffer, her soup’s salt was too high and her meat too
bloody to consume. Not knowing any better, Gram went about her business,
needing the occasional lift from the couch, or a hand to hold as she walked
down the stairs. Her three grapes at
night turned into, three grapes, five pills, and some lotion for her dry skin.
Nothing major though, she still was unstoppable to me.
“Making dinner hun.”
Mom replied to me as a look of sadness brushed her face. I knew my mom could
cook, but Gram always cooked, it is what she looked forward to each day. Being
her kitchen assistant, it was something I looked forward to as well. Mom
cooking dinner became more common than usual, trying her best to live up to
Gram’s meals. She did everything the same as Gram but… it just wasn’t the same.
Gram sat off in the corner, being too old to maneuver a cheese grater. Grams
body was there, but her mind wasn’t. I looked at her and saw frustration.
Frustrated about herself, her condition she was in, and for the first time, not
being able to fix something that was almost broken.
Occasionally, after I tucked her in at night, I didn’t go
to my room. I slept on the other side of her bed, discussing whatever came out
of her mouth. After each late night chat, we would say two prayers in Italian,
and doze off into our own separate dreams. Except for one night, Gram turned
over and looked at me. Tears clogged her hazel, tired eyes, “I am an old lady.
I want to die.” Without saying anything, our hands intertwined and laced
together like a pair of shoes, we both went to sleep. I dug my face deep into her feather pillow; I could
smell her more in her pillow than the person lying right next to me. The Gram I
knew my entire life, the woman that raised me, was mentally gone. I woke up that morning wishing I was still
asleep. Those words felt like she wrote them in permanent marker around my
broken heart. My superhero wanted to die; she did not want to continue
conquering the world around her. And then there was me, a fifteen year old
girl, sophomore in high school, trying to figure out who I really was. How
could I do it without her?
Weeks went by and my household became a free verse style
poem. Every day, something new happened. One night Gram would be hallucinating,
accusing people around her of things that never happened. The next morning, her
feet would be too swollen to walk, from retaining too much water. Some
afternoons her heart would be racing, causing her to find difficulty in
breathing. Before I knew it, the members on the first aid squad knew my family
and I on a first name basis, and their process of getting Gram onto the
stretcher and into the back of the truck could have been timed and completed in
less than three minutes. My walk home from the bus stop everyday was a
suspense, I never knew whether or not an East Hanover First Aid Squad orange
and white truck would be there to greet me or not.
