Tag: Aging

Nana is 100 years old.  And she still teaches me how to live.

This week when I visited, my Aunt and I sat with her after lunch, Nana in the wheelchair by the window, and my aunt and I perched on some poor excuse for a bed.  Beneath the window was an arrangement of The New York Times.  The TV’s remote control sat on top of it, holding papers in place.  You can smell age in such a room, a combination of bleach and baby powder.  Sometimes there are shadows in the corners.  I swear in those moments, I can feel Death biding her time.

After lunch, our ritual is to have a cookie or two.  There are usually Milanos, or Vienna Fingers. Sometimes there are Chips Ahoy.  Nana’s greatest line is “Looky, looky, where are the cookies?”  The first time she said it, I busted out laughing, shocked at her emerging sense of humor.  I can still remember her sheepish grin.  She even asked, “Did I say that out loud?’

But on this day, Nana swore there were no cookies.  She scolded my aunt for not bringing any. But my aunt said that there were a few different kinds in the tiny college fridge on the other side of the room. As a dutiful granddaughter, I went to get them.  While pulling out the cookies,  I found a small Tupperware with a piece of peach pie.

Puzzled, I asked Nana where she got it.  Turns out that the woman who comes to hang with Nana in the afternoon had brought it, a gift from the woman’s own mother.  My first thought was how considerate this aid was.  Some of you may know that it is difficult to find a good aid in a nursing home. The second thought that bounced between my ears was I was surprised that an aid still came in the afternoons.  My aunt had groaned about the extra expense, claiming that we couldn’t afford it for long.  Nana’s response would be “I won’t be around much longer.” This childlike manipulation seemed to have worked.

Surprising me again, Nana chose to forgo her usual after lunch Milano for the peach pie.  My aunt was about to nuke it when I told her not to unless we took it out of the plastic container.

I searched the cabinets over the sink and found just one plate.  It happened to be one that my sister had made a few years earlier  probably at one of those sip ands women go to.  It saddens to me to think that Nana doesn’t have plates, cups, or silverware anymore. It’s just another reminder that of how memories tend to anchor my experiences.  Nana had had gorgeous silverware, and beautiful goblets my grandfather had swiped during WWII.  Now there are no plates, silverware, or wine goblets.  I am not even sure where they ended up.  Maybe they are in a cousins’ basement.  Or perhaps they ended up at Good Will.  Not that it matters, but my brain clung to this detail like pink bubblegum to a high-heeled shoe.

After nuking the pie, I took a white paper napkin and tucked it into Nana’s shirt collar.  The action reminded me of putting a bib on my son when he was little.  She grinned at me, just like he had.

“Think I’ll make a mess?” she asked.

I smiled as I handed her the pie and grimaced at the plastic fork.  But Nana didn’t seem to care.  She dug into the piece of peach pie,  stabbing it like Ahab trying to kill Moby Dick.  And this was after eating a full lunch!  I marveled at her appetite.  It wasn’t so long ago that she was in the hospital with an IV and refused to eat.

My aunt was chatting about one thing or another, and I thought to ask her about the aid.  But Nana dug into the pie again with a sheepish grin.  Peach juice and pie crust pieces fell onto the napkin, evidence of her enjoyment.  She was genuinely happy in that moment, stopping only to describe the woman that would arrive later that afternoon.

Asking that question about the aid didn’t seem so important. Neither did the plastic fork, or ceramic plate.  All that mattered was that Nana enjoyed her pie.  And I was here to witness it.  Asking about how we were paying for the aid, or complaining about the plastic fork, or reminiscing about the fine china Nana used to have dissipated with each forkful. Nana didn’t need to know the particulars of her existence in that moment.  She just needed to feel joy.

It didn’t matter that Nana is now immobile and spends her days in a wheelchair.  Or the financial crisis of trying to pay for assisted living looms in the near future.  Nor, the presence of a plastic utensil.  None of these was worth mentioning.  “Just let her be!” my thought screamed at me.

All that mattered was being there.  And witnessing the sweet happiness a stranger’s generosity can bring.  I was present for those eternal minutes.   And I am grateful that I chose to keep silent and just watch, recognizing that it was Nana’s moment, not mine.