Today, my father brought my grandmother to the nursing home. I came along with him. We picked her up from my aunt’s, where she has been living for the past few months. My grandmother claims up until this very day that she’d manage living on her own, it’s just that she would be scared death would come get her, and that no one would mourn her
When we arrived, my father rang the doorbell, but rather than waiting for an answer as he usually does, he just entered. The house was quieter than usual. My aunt came out of the room to greet us:” I’m just getting her ready-making her pretty, you know?” she said with a smile that made her whole statement and situation ridiculous. ”It won’t take much longer. I’ll make coffee in a minute.”
I went into the room and kissed my grandmother’s moist and somewhat salty cheeks. She looked at me and said: ”You see sweetheart? This is the end of your grandmother. They’re sending me to a nursing home. I will end up like an abandoned dog.”
I wanted to reply that this is the best thing for her, that her legs aren’t what they used to be, that she needs help(amazing how quickly we adopt the arguments of others), but then I saw her cry again. I tried to save the situation. “We’ll come see you every day, and… and…,” I said, but then fell silent. When I have nothing left to say is the silence like a prayer.
I don’t remember how my father and aunt reacted to my grandmother’s tears, or the way to the nursing home. Images of a happy past mixed together with images of the present. That is the only thing I can remember from the journey.
My grandmother cried through the first few nights in the nursing home. During the day, she wouldn’t let anyone see her tears, especially when we came to visit.
She’d also stopped talking about “her end”. When she was still living with my aunt and she knew that her children had decided to take her to a nursing home, she used to talk about it. The End. Maybe she stopped believing in it, or maybe time truly is a whore, as the author Romain Gary describes aging.
To make time pass more pleasantly for their residents, the aides at the nursing home tried to get them involved in various activities. Some residents are almost blind. Some, almost deaf. The aids however try to save whatever time the residents have left. My grandmother painted. She often said that the aides would make a second Picasso out of her. I sometimes brought her various recordings of Astor Piazzolla, Sinatra, and others from her time. She’d listen to them teary eyed and with a dreamy gaze. I can imagine she would then think of the past with my grandfather, but I never asked her about it. That was her own place. That belonged to her only.
When we arrived, my father rang the doorbell, but rather than waiting for an answer as he usually does, he just entered. The house was quieter than usual. My aunt came out of the room to greet us:” I’m just getting her ready-making her pretty, you know?” she said with a smile that made her whole statement and situation ridiculous. ”It won’t take much longer. I’ll make coffee in a minute.”
I went into the room and kissed my grandmother’s moist and somewhat salty cheeks. She looked at me and said: ”You see sweetheart? This is the end of your grandmother. They’re sending me to a nursing home. I will end up like an abandoned dog.”
I wanted to reply that this is the best thing for her, that her legs aren’t what they used to be, that she needs help(amazing how quickly we adopt the arguments of others), but then I saw her cry again. I tried to save the situation. “We’ll come see you every day, and… and…,” I said, but then fell silent. When I have nothing left to say is the silence like a prayer.
I don’t remember how my father and aunt reacted to my grandmother’s tears, or the way to the nursing home. Images of a happy past mixed together with images of the present. That is the only thing I can remember from the journey.
My grandmother cried through the first few nights in the nursing home. During the day, she wouldn’t let anyone see her tears, especially when we came to visit.
She’d also stopped talking about “her end”. When she was still living with my aunt and she knew that her children had decided to take her to a nursing home, she used to talk about it. The End. Maybe she stopped believing in it, or maybe time truly is a whore, as the author Romain Gary describes aging.
To make time pass more pleasantly for their residents, the aides at the nursing home tried to get them involved in various activities. Some residents are almost blind. Some, almost deaf. The aids however try to save whatever time the residents have left. My grandmother painted. She often said that the aides would make a second Picasso out of her. I sometimes brought her various recordings of Astor Piazzolla, Sinatra, and others from her time. She’d listen to them teary eyed and with a dreamy gaze. I can imagine she would then think of the past with my grandfather, but I never asked her about it. That was her own place. That belonged to her only.