Me and Grandma, 1980
Last Wednesday night, at approximately 7:00 PM, my grandmother lost her mind. This isn’t news, really; she’s been losing it, on and off, since she was first diagnosed with dementia a few years back. But this time it was on my watch, at the kitchen table where I used to munch on homemade granola while trying to decipher the French side of a billingual Cheerios box.

The last few days had been rough on grandma. She had a wax buildup in her ears, and the drops we’d put in in anticipation of her doctor’s appointment had only served to further clog things up, cutting her off completely. I’d taken to writing her notes to keep her up to speed on the days events, a slow, awkward practice that had been all but useless at her optometrist’s appointment earlier that day.
At six, Grandma woke from her afternoon nap in tears. I hugged her, shushing into her hair as if she were a small child. “What’s wrong?” I asked. I broke away and ran for the notebook. WHATS WRONG, I wrote.
“What’s Wrong!?” Grandma repeated, her hair wild, “What’s wrong is that this horrible tragedy has befallen our family!”
This happens a lot. A few years ago, grandma woke up in tears, convinced that my Aunt Carol and Uncle Michael had committed joint suicide. Since then, she’s been convinced that each family member has, at one time or another, died, usually horribly and usually by their own hand. Last Christmas, I got a phone call from her. She was convinced my boyfriend, Brian, had killed himself. “Congratulations, honey,” I told him later. “You’re family.”
Anyway, through written notes and handsigns, grandma’s caregiver and I managed to urge her downstairs to dinner. Apollonia, the caregiver, had made chicken and rice for grandma, and had heated up some leftover ravioli for me (I’m a vegetarian).
“Some people told me,” grandma said, “that all the food from yesterday was poisoned.”
“Apollonia just made this,” I said. And then I wrote, NOT FROM YESTERDAY. THIS IS ALL FRESH.
“Anyone could be a poisoner,” grandma said. “I have to watch everyone. Even you,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at Apollonia. “The sweetest smiles can sometimes hide the darkest hearts.” (Grandma has always had a way with words). Apollonia’s smile faded.
“The food is fine,” I shouted. THE FOOD IS FINE, I wrote. APOLLONIA IS HERE TO HELP.
It bothers me sometimes how grandma treats her caregivers. She’s often polite, quietly following their instructions and letting them do thier thing. When she’s upset, though, she can explode, accusing them of interfering at best and diabolical intentions at the worst.
“It is her illness,” her weekend caregiver Emilie said to me yesterday. “But you’re human. Sometimes, when she is mean, you can’t help but be hurt.”
So I wish I’d stood up for Apollonia. I wish I’d told my grandmother that she shouldn’t say that, that Apollonia had been cooking for an hour while she napped and I did homework at the table. I wish I’d told her how Apollonia brought me a fresh mango when she came back from her break, and how I’d pretended, for a moment, that I was Apollonia’s granddaughter, safe and secure in the kitchen with a grandmother who still thought about me as someone who needed coddling. But in the moment, all my attention was on grandma.
Eventually, I managed to coax her to eat some crackers, and then some chicken and rice, and a bowl of ice cream with strawberries. But she was still worried, about my Aunt Lynn (”she works too much”), about her appointment with the eye doctor (”he asked so many questions about the family history — more than would be normal”) and about my cousin Nicky, who for some reason she was convinced was facing racial discrimination at school (”It’s so terrible,” she said. “They want everyone to be white and protestant.” “But we are white and protestant!” I replied. And then I wrote it down, because she couldn’t hear me).

The last few days had been rough on grandma. She had a wax buildup in her ears, and the drops we’d put in in anticipation of her doctor’s appointment had only served to further clog things up, cutting her off completely. I’d taken to writing her notes to keep her up to speed on the days events, a slow, awkward practice that had been all but useless at her optometrist’s appointment earlier that day.

At six, Grandma woke from her afternoon nap in tears. I hugged her, shushing into her hair as if she were a small child. “What’s wrong?” I asked. I broke away and ran for the notebook. WHATS WRONG, I wrote.

“What’s Wrong!?” Grandma repeated, her hair wild, “What’s wrong is that this horrible tragedy has befallen our family!”

This happens a lot. A few years ago, grandma woke up in tears, convinced that my Aunt Carol and Uncle Michael had committed joint suicide. Since then, she’s been convinced that each family member has, at one time or another, died, usually horribly and usually by their own hand. Last Christmas, I got a phone call from her. She was convinced my boyfriend, Brian, had killed himself. “Congratulations, honey,” I told him later. “You’re family.”

Anyway, through written notes and handsigns, grandma’s caregiver and I managed to urge her downstairs to dinner. Apollonia, the caregiver, had made chicken and rice for grandma, and had heated up some leftover ravioli for me (I’m a vegetarian).

“Some people told me,” grandma said, “that all the food from yesterday was poisoned.”

“Apollonia just made this,” I said. And then I wrote, NOT FROM YESTERDAY. THIS IS ALL FRESH.

“Anyone could be a poisoner,” grandma said. “I have to watch everyone. Even you,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at Apollonia. “The sweetest smiles can sometimes hide the darkest hearts.” Apollonia’s smile faded.

“The food is fine,” I shouted. THE FOOD IS FINE, I wrote. APOLLONIA IS HERE TO HELP.

It bothers me sometimes how grandma treats her caregivers. She’s often polite, quietly following their instructions and letting them do thier thing. When she’s upset, though, she can explode, accusing them of interfering at best and diabolical intentions at the worst.

“It is her illness,” her weekend caregiver Emilie said to me yesterday. “But you’re human. Sometimes, when she is mean, you can’t help but be hurt.”

So I wish I’d stood up for Apollonia. I wish I’d told my grandmother that she shouldn’t say that, that Apollonia had been cooking for an hour. I wish I’d told her how Apollonia brought me a fresh mango when she came back from her break, and how I’d pretended, for a moment, that I was Apollonia’s granddaughter, safe and secure in the kitchen with a grandmother who still thought about me as someone who needed coddling. But in the moment, all my attention was on grandma.

Eventually, I managed to coax her to eat some crackers, and then some chicken and rice, and a bowl of ice cream with strawberries. But she was still worried, about my Aunt Lynn (”she works too much”), about her appointment with the eye doctor (”Are you sure he didn’t say I had cancer? And he asked so many questions about the family history — more than would be normal”) and about my cousin Nicky, who for some reason she was convinced was facing racial discrimination at school (”It’s so terrible,” she said. “They want everyone to be white and protestant.” “But we are white and protestant!” I replied. And then I wrote it down, because she couldn’t hear me).

This went on for quite a while, culminating with her and me searching the attic for the man she thought she had showed around the house one night when my uncle Brian was here (”It was very late,” she said, “but Brian is a sound sleeper”).

I’ve noticed that when she worries like this, she tends to not only cry a bit, but breathe heavily as well, in short, shallow breaths, a primal sort of reaction to the adrenaline conjured up by her fears. I tried to comfort her as best I could, and she really did seem to calm down, even though I don’t think I assuaged her worries at all.

The mistake I always make is thinking I can fix my grandmother, coax her back and convince her to stay. Though the next morning, when she finally woke up, she was better — so good that, when bedtime came, I didn’t want to let her go — there is no keeping her. Bad dreams disturb her sleep, leaching into her days and clouding her memories with tragedy and worry. The ghost wins again.