Remembering my Grandma

It’s two days before new year’s when the Uber drops us off at Grandma’s place. My family had thanked me profusely when I offered to go, but my visit was hardly the sacrifice it seemed. Unlike last year, when I ushered in January 1 with my college roommates, Dancing On My Own, and (approximately) all of Philadelphia, I’ve made no glitzy plans this time around. I am single, sad, and simply ready for 2020 to end. And, well, so is Grandma.

I help her with her bags and we walk up the front path, slowly. Grandma fumbles for her keys then opens the door and I take a moment to read the handwritten notes taped to the back of it, once reminders for Grandpa to take his medications; now reminders for us of his presence, then step inside. 

Grandma disappears to change or use the bathroom or (most likely) smoke a cigarette and I slip into the guest room to do two of the three. My airplane outfit is stiff and crunchy and reeks of tomato juice and vodka from when the flight attendant spilled a bloody mary on my lap hours earlier. At the time, I was less rattled than relieved — thank God they doused me and not Grandma — but now, the promise of clean clothes teases me with relief.

I shower quickly then towel off my body then unzip my suitcase and tear through it until I pull out a pair of pajamas and wiggle into those then slide open the closet doors and pluck out one of Grandpa’s fleece zip-ups and pop that on as well. It’s hot in Florida, but I’m still craving his warmth.

When I return to the living room, I find Grandma slumped in the left corner of the couch — her corner — with the retractable footrest extended and her legs dangling over it.

“Well Claire,” she says without turning. “How would you feel about peanut butter sandwiches and martinis?”

I give her a smile when what I want to do is laugh, then pull out a bag of wonder bread from one cabinet and a bottle of vodka from another. I know where she keeps the liquor and I know how she likes her martinis because she taught me last time, when there was still Grandpa and not COVID-19.

“Ray used to have a jacket like that,” she says when I hand her her feast. “I mean, Grandpa.”

When I tell her “it is his, actually,” she nods. Then I sip my martini and feel it burn and look in her eyes and watch them simmer — embers threatening to ignite but not yet aflame.

“I miss him so much,” she says, and her voice is low but not soft because Grandma is not a soft woman and while, sometimes, I’ve wished she was softer, I love that she is strong.

“I miss him too,” I whisper not-so-strongly and she knows, sweetie, but it’s different.

Losing a grandparent is different than losing your other half; the person whose life you shared selfishly for 58 years, through sickness and health and children and grandchildren and motorcycles and motorboats and Oldsmobiles and major lung transplants.

“Have I ever told you the story of how I proposed?” I recall Grandpa asking me at their kitchen table, a few footsteps and one year away from where Grandma and I sit today.

“I don’t think so,” I reply, to which Grandma follows up with: “Because he didn’t!” 

Grandpa gasps as if he is offended — “she doesn’t even remember!” — but the twinkle in his eyes gives him away.

“We were driving to Mexico and I said “will you marry me,” and you nodded, affirmative.”

She almost burst then. I could see it in the way she sealed her eyes and squeezed her lips and tilted her head up to bask in that memory a little longer, and maybe thank someone for it too.

My Grandparents loved each other more than any couple I know, and to an extent I can’t yet fathom. But while their love was more than reciprocated, the extent to which they relied on each appeared lopsided. Namely, I don’t think my Grandma needed my Grandpa so much as he needed her. Her encouragement of his lung transplant — he kept hesitating, she told me, until I firmly told him to take the opportunity that arose — and unwavering support of his cancer treatments and countless other medical battles were a (if not the) driving force that kept him going until the bitter end, when COVID precautions barred her from visiting him in the hospital and it was time to initiate hospice care at home.

Grandma lived for more than three years after Grandpa’s passing, and had the roles been reversed, I can’t imagine he would have fared so well. I don’t want to imagine, though. So I won’t.

During those years she watched the last of her sons get married, the last of her grandchildren begin college, and the first of her grandchildren get engaged. I watched her body get smaller, hair get whiter (she stopped dying it), and heart get heavier. Because she really did miss him. So much.

When Grandma’s life left her on Sunday she was sitting on her corner of the couch with a sudoku puzzle in her lap. I’m told she went peacefully, but Grandma wasn’t a peaceful woman. Instead, I like to think of her exit as stoic: a powerful send-off to reconnect with the man she loved.