Grandma: the later years

Shortly after Grandpa died, we realized he’d been covering for Grandma and her increasing forgetfulness.

I remember helping Grandma search for her house keys just days after Grandpa passed away. We turned the house upside down and, as the hunt lengthened without success, Grandma became increasingly agitated. “Grandpa, help me find those keys!” I implored. And, when I looked on the dining room table for the hundredth time, there were Grandma’s keys, perched atop a stack of papers.

Mark and I married 11 months after Grandpa’s death (his last wish had been to dance at our wedding), and we moved into the downstairs apartment of Grandma’s two-family house. The rent was low, and we had access to half the basement, a two-car garage, and the double-lot yard. But, more importantly, Grandma knew we were there.

Eight years later, we moved to North Carolina seeking a more affordable area to buy our own home and start our family. Grandma managed to stay in her house a few years longer, with the help of an in-home nurse during the day. Eventually, though, Mom and Aunt Annette made the difficult decision to move her to a nursing home.

Several months ago, Grandma started choking on her food. The doctors said there were two options – insert a feeding tube, or not -- and Mom and Aunt Annette decided to do the latter.

Just days before Mom told me, my eight-year-old son, R, (whose best friend had just lost his grandfather) said he wanted to meet Grandma. Unfortunately, I hadn’t seen her in more than 10 years, but since she no longer recognized anyone, I reasoned she was not aware of that. Then, when Mom called, I decided to return to New Jersey sooner rather than later.

We flew up for a weekend in August and stayed with my brother, Anthony, and his family. Aunt Annette met us at the nursing home and, for the first time ever, all five of Grandma’s great-grandchildren circled her wheelchair, trying to keep her attention before she nodded off to sleep again.

Peaceful. That’s how Grandma looks. The nervous eye twitch and anxious facial expression that had slipped into place after Grandpa’s death are gone. The only indication that she has anything but happy thoughts is her tendency to jerk her clenched fist up and down, as if she is stabbing at something in her lap; that and an intermittent grinding of what’s left of her teeth that creates a friction-on-rubber sound -- the only sound she makes anymore.

Her skin is smooth and soft; her face almost devoid of wrinkles. For some unknown reason, I asked Aunt Annette’s permission to touch Grandma. She encouraged me, noting that, aside from family visits, the only human touch Grandma receives now is from strangers who care for and feed her.

It was probably my imagination, but Grandma’s clenched-fist jerk seemed to slow as I stroked her arms and hands. While my daughter, J, organized some of the other nursing home residents for bingo, I stood by Grandma’s side, caressing her blue-veined hands and remembering how she had firmly held my much smaller one when we crossed the street on a long-ago spring day.

“So, Easter is the day after tomorrow?” I asked.

“No, the day after, the day after tomorrow,” Grandma explained.

“Right, the day after tomorrow.”

“The day after the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes, the day after tomorrow.”

“Okay, today is Holy Thursday, tomorrow is Good Friday. The day after tomorrow is Holy Saturday and the day after that is Easter Sunday.”

“Oh…”

Grandma’s hands never learned to drive, but could de-bone a chicken like nobody’s business. They were strong hands that helped her become a forelady at Sherman’s sewing factory on Central Avenue in Orange, N.J., and scrubbed my face so hard I thought it would come off with the dirt. And her hands were kind as they pressed money into mine when she thought my mother wasn’t looking, and slipped our dog, Maggie, table scraps on the sly.

The good news (thanks to a barium swallow test) is Grandma doesn’t need a feeding tube; just a softer, more liquefied diet. So, her 99th birthday on Thanksgiving may not be her last.

Happy Birthday, Grandma!

What would Grandpa think?

Twenty-six years ago today, Grandpa died.

It started in Summer 1983. He was losing his balance and coordination. Diagnosis: a brain tumor that was successfully removed. He went for radiation treatment as an outpatient, but when he started chemo, the stress of caring for him at home proved too much for Grandma, so he returned to Orange Memorial Hospital.

Orange Memorial. The place where Essex County’s ailing elderly went and -- more often than not -- stayed until they died.

The place was a well-oiled Medicare milking machine; a sterile environment in which to languish while Nature took its course – and Medicare paid the bills.

Such was Grandpa’s fate. A few days before he died, the doctors noticed he had jaundice. The reason: liver cancer.

Based on the limited knowledge I have about cancer and brain tumors, I know that primary brain tumors are extremely rare. In all likelihood, Grandpa’s brain tumor was secondary to his liver cancer. Could he have survived if his doctors had been more thorough? Probably not. But, I think his last days may have been very different – and the final cost to Medicare, greatly reduced.

Although I try not to think about the hopeless pain of Grandpa’s last hospital stay (there are, thankfully, so many other wonderful memories of him that I cherish), I can’t help wondering what he would say about our nation’s current health care debate.

Politically, he leaned to the right – like the rest of my family (I’m the political “black sheep”), but I remember him diffusing more than one argument at the Sunday dinner table by quoting, “I may not agree with what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it!”

In recent weeks, I’ve been cautiously optimistic that a spark of compromise is in the works in our nation’s Capitol with regard to health care. And, if he had lived to see it, I think Grandpa would be open to the possibility of such change. As I reflect on Grandpa’s memory today, I’m hopeful that we’ll all do what we can to fan that spark into a flame.