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.

 

                  When I came home from basketball a few weeks later, my mother was in the kitchen. “What are you doing,” I asked her, not realizing that it was obvious she was making dinner.

“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.