The Tail End of Our Journey Brings Joy, Sadness, Regret, Laughter…And a Letter to My Grandmother

Posted on February 13, 2009
Filed Under Daily, Family | 6 Comments

Dear Mimmi,

As our road trip with Dad came to an end, our last stop was to come visit you in the nursing home.
I’ve been so anxious to see you, and in my opinion, we saved the best for last.

You’re looking weak, but you still have your sense of humor.
I would guess that you’re weighing in at about 102 pounds, but you insist that you’re 112.
I think you think you weigh more because of all that “boots” you’ve been drinking.
No one wanted to tell you it’s actually called Boost, but every time you referred to it as boots, I smiled.
You couldn’t see me, though. Your eyesight has gotten so weak over the last two years, that you’re essentially blind now, and I can only imagine what it must be like to be a prisoner in your own body.
You mostly keep your eyes closed, even when you’re awake. Sometimes it creeps people out, because we think you’re sleeping, and you think that’s funny, too.

I’m sorry that it has been so long since I came to visit you. You couldn’t come to my wedding in July, and although I was devastated, my husband and I came to visit you shortly after we returned from our honeymoon. You liked him very much, even though he doesn’t speak our native tongue.
As he spoke to you nervously in English, afraid you might not understand what he was trying to say, you replied confidently in your own version of.

I can’t believe you’ll be 89 years old this year. I’m counting on you to reach 100 so my kids can meet you someday.
Yesterday at the nursing home, I popped into Mabel’s room next door to say hello.
But Mable wasn’t there.
You have a new neighbor at the Lutheran home, her name is Genevieve.
Mable died.

I was unusually upset when I heard the news. I didn’t know Mablel at all — just as your neighbor. But it hurt me, and it made me wonder, Mimmi, are you going to die, too?

I hope not, because I’m not ready.

You’re the only grandparent I’ve ever known.
Mom’s parents died before I was born, and your husband died when Uzma was only 5 months old. As a kid, I always thought it was so unfair that I never got to meet any of them — but in some ways, it made me feel more special to have you.
Even though I was really close to Mom’s aunt and uncle, who I considered my grandparents, they always lived so far away, and when they died, I felt a sadness in my heart that I felt like I didn’t have the right to feel.

But you.
Well, you’ve lived with us since we were kids.
I don’t remember a time when you weren’t living in the same house as me.
In fact, I remember being three years old, glued to the television (watching wrestling, of course), drinking chocolate milk out of a baby bottle, and you yelling at my mom for it.
You said I shouldn’t be drinking a bottle because I would get buckteeth, and I shouldn’t be sitting so close to the TV because I’d get glasses.
Welp, guess what?
I got glasses, and I had braces.
No buckteeth, Thank God, but braces nonetheless.

You’ve been a part of my life for so long, that you knew all my childhood friends, and in high school, you met some of my new frineds. You’d sit quietly by the window watching how American teenagers interact with each other.
You were so excited when I graduated from high school, and told me to keep working hard for the Big Day: College Graduation.
I always thought it was interesting that you put so much importance on education. After all, you got married when you were 14. Even though I don’t get how that happens, I understand now that it was part of the culture generations ago.
And not just a part of foreign culture, either. I once met an American woman who told me she got married at 15.

You wanted my sister and me to work hard, finish school, get jobs, and then get married. You always said, “If I didn’t get married, and had continued with my education, I would have become a doctor.”
And I believe you.

Yesterday, when you heard our voices, you were so overwhelmed, you thought you were imagining things.
You said that’s been happening to you a lot lately.
When you tell a story, you ask us if it was a dream or reality, because you’re having trouble these days, distinguishing between the two.
Some people think it’s your old age.
I just think it’s the nursing home.

I want you to know that when you fell ill, and your children made the executive decision to put you in a nursing home, I fought for you.
I caused some turmoil in the family, and for a while, my aunts and uncle, and cousins weren’t very happy with me.
Even Dad, who raised his two daughters to stand up and fight for what they believe in, wanted me to leave the decision-making up to the “adults.”

When they sold your house to pay for your extended stay in the home, I thought of a million ways I could buy it back. But all that money is hard to come by when you’re in college — and even harder after you get married.
I’m sorry you’re still in the home.
And I wish I fought harder.

The precious gold bangles, given to you by your husband, that once adorned your hands, have been replace with a plastic wrist band that says National Lutheran Home on it.
It seems really lonely where you are. No one speaks your language, and since you’re blind now, you can’t go downstairs, and enjoy the activities they put together for some of the healthier residents.
They had a bird show the other day, and I know how much you love birds.

You’re still on really good terms with Mom, and she still comes to visit you. You insisted you heard her voice while we were there. Dad told you they got divorced long ago, and they never visit you simultaneously, but you insisted she had come to see you earlier.
I believed you.
So much so, that I had Uzma call Mom to confirm.
When she got off the phone, she said that Mom hadn’t come to see you in weeks.
But still you insisted that she was there earlier that morning.

“She left because she knew you were coming,” is what you said to my dad.

And then I felt like I was the one hallucinating.
Mimmi, I was kind in denial, like a woman in an abusive relationship — and I asked my sister again, and again if our mom came to visit you.
Even after she said no three times, somehow, I still believed you.

I wish I could come visit you more often, but it takes a great toll on my health. Ever since you moved into the nursing home, I get really bad headaches each time we come to see you. I think it’s just the stress of it all; the home, seeing you so helpless, seeing you unhappy, having to deal with the nurses who are so rude and awful.

I’m always mentally prepared for my headaches, but this time, I couldn’t handle the emotional heartache that came with seeing you in that small room all by yourself — six months changes a lot.
Walking into that home, I feel like Superman meeting his kryptonite, and seeing you so weak was just unbearable.

I wanted to laugh when my dad helped you from your bed to the chair and you said, “In the name of God, goodbye to the world.”
But instead, I cried.

When we got home, I took a really hot shower.
I just stood under the rushing water, like a rock embedded in the earth beneath a waterfall.
My eyes were closed, my head was pounding, and I felt like I was suffocating. I opened my mouth to take in a few deep breaths, but my feet stayed planted, and I stood there until my forehead and cheeks went numb.

The good news is that you’re up to date with current events. You told me that we have a new president, and you like him. You said you were happy that a man of color is now holding the highest office in the world.
You even knew his name — Obama.

Mimmi, I hope you know that my door is always open to you.
If you ever leave that nursing home, I’d love for you to come live with me.
It’s almost springtime, which means the weather will be warm, and there will be lots of birds coming to the feeder. I’ll take you outside so you can feel the warmth of the sun, or if you prefer to stay inside, there’s a chair, right next to the window, with your name on it.

Love,
Sabrina

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