Boarding House
The other day, my mother was telling me this story about a very dramatic news event that happened sometime in the mid-80's. A middle-aged woman had suddenly gotten the urge to drive her car up the marble stairs of the State Capitol building. Upon reaching the near top, she ran out and unburdened herself of a large paper bag, throwing it in the direction of the police officers who normally stand guard there. When the police officers opened the bag, they found the head of the lady's mother.
The lady had been taking care of her aging mother, who had been a rather controlling and bossy woman. Day in, day out, the lady catered to her every whim and fancy, watching helplessly as her marriage fell apart, her career ending, and all these other tragic things. One day, she just snapped.
We pause, thinking how just recently-maybe three weeks ago- we would've been on the mother's side of the incident. Then Grandma moved in.
Grandma, who was on the brink of certain death only a month ago, has fought back with the strength that only really disagreeable people have. While I may have regarded her with a certain whimsical fascination over the years, living with her has changed my opinion completely. What is whimsical when viewed from a distance on rare occasions over years, is just completely nuts when dealt with on a day to day basis. I can reasonably accomodate a request for water at a reasonable hour, but I cannot handle being woken up at 4 am for a water of a certain temperature that is somewhere between freezing and lukewarm. This temperature, dubbed Mystery Farhenheit, is only attained by placing water in a cocktail shaker with 3 ounces of ice, and proceeding to shake the concoction for 15-20 seconds. Err on the side of 15, and it's too warm. Err on the side of 20, it is too cold.
It is in those 3 seconds in between that I lose my own mind. Sensing my anger, she immediately goes in to A Very Sick Old Lady frame of mind, which arouses sympathy from me because I am a very naive and gullible person. Realizing her window of opportunity, she asks me for a Pain Pill, which stands for a probably narcotic substance that would earn me enough to pay off my tuition if I were inclined to sell it. At least I assume so. The Pain Pill is of the strongest formulation, as Grandma has built up years of resistance against sundry medications due to her daily Vicodin, taken in conjunction with her morning and evening vitamins.
I gave in, once. I was tired and on 3 hours of sleep. Her eyes, which were hazy with sleep seconds before, lit up as I gave her the miniscule blue tablet.
The next morning, I was awakened by screaming.
"WHAT did you give your grandmother?" My mom asked.
"She asked for a pain pill and I gave her one," I said, motioning to the large bottle of blue tablets. The morning sunbeams illumated the words "ONLY TO BE USED WITH DOCTOR'S CLEARANCE."
"Are you nuts? We're only supposed to give her half a tablet, only when the doctor says so. I can't believe you let her talk you in to giving one. I can't wake her up, and now she's going to be up all night."
She hesitates before storming out of the room, "But that's fine. You're the one who will be dealing with that anyway."
I take care of Grandmother during the evenings. The nights weren't supposed to be difficult, as she's technically able to do pretty much anything on her own, but refuses to because she's bossy. I was only supposed to dispense a midnight pill, which I have to retrieve from a locked cabinet, the way you lock up your liquor and cleaning solvents from a 4 year old. However- and this probably has to due with my naive and gullible qualities- she normally keeps me up til 5 am with requests, from the absurd to the insane. I'm told that my shift pales in comparison to my mother's, which I'd believe if I got to wake up in time to see the daytime.
If she doesn't keep me up with a dissertation on why I should provide her with foam-cushion pillows as opposed to feather-filled ones, I lie awake with anxiety. This isn't my normal anxiety, which usually centers on elaborate revenge fantasies against perceived injustices, but a different kind of anxiety that comes from living with a crazy old lady. Sometimes I worry that she'll get in to the pill cabinet. Sometimes I worry I'll walk past her bed to find her not breathing. Othertimes, I swear I hear the sounds of her walker moving across the floor, or the unmistakable hissing of a "burping" colostomy bag.
But most of the time, I'm terrified that I'll see my grandmother nude. Or half-nude.
This fear isn't entirely unfounded. Somehow, breaking your hip and losing your old modesty go hand-in-hand. This was the woman who famously tainted the memories of Thanksgiving 1997 by telling her gathered family that she prided herself upon shielding her nude figure from her husband during their entire marriage. Even though she just might be manic-depressive, at least she had her modesty.
But on the day of the Failed London Bombings, everything changed. I was grimly summoned to the living room to help Grandma with some sort of strap that was fastened around her mid-section. I knew enough to question its function. As she lifted her nightgown, I was greeted with the image of her nude back. She was wearing pajama pants, but to the south-west quadrant was the unmistakable shape of an 80-something year-old nipple, in profile.
After that day of terror, I developed a sort of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, where I can no longer look her in the eye without envisioning the cold, unblinking stare of an 80-something year-old nipple, which probably explains the inclination to hand over a Pain Pill without question. It might go away one day, but probably won't, which I fear might be a Last Straw of some sort. We're not sure if she'll ever be ready to move out of our house, which makes the situation even more unbearable. Perhaps my only way out would be the Oedipal method, with a self-mutilation of the eyes. But at least I won't find my way to the Capitol Stairs, if only because I technically don't have a car at my disposal.
The lady had been taking care of her aging mother, who had been a rather controlling and bossy woman. Day in, day out, the lady catered to her every whim and fancy, watching helplessly as her marriage fell apart, her career ending, and all these other tragic things. One day, she just snapped.
We pause, thinking how just recently-maybe three weeks ago- we would've been on the mother's side of the incident. Then Grandma moved in.
Grandma, who was on the brink of certain death only a month ago, has fought back with the strength that only really disagreeable people have. While I may have regarded her with a certain whimsical fascination over the years, living with her has changed my opinion completely. What is whimsical when viewed from a distance on rare occasions over years, is just completely nuts when dealt with on a day to day basis. I can reasonably accomodate a request for water at a reasonable hour, but I cannot handle being woken up at 4 am for a water of a certain temperature that is somewhere between freezing and lukewarm. This temperature, dubbed Mystery Farhenheit, is only attained by placing water in a cocktail shaker with 3 ounces of ice, and proceeding to shake the concoction for 15-20 seconds. Err on the side of 15, and it's too warm. Err on the side of 20, it is too cold.
It is in those 3 seconds in between that I lose my own mind. Sensing my anger, she immediately goes in to A Very Sick Old Lady frame of mind, which arouses sympathy from me because I am a very naive and gullible person. Realizing her window of opportunity, she asks me for a Pain Pill, which stands for a probably narcotic substance that would earn me enough to pay off my tuition if I were inclined to sell it. At least I assume so. The Pain Pill is of the strongest formulation, as Grandma has built up years of resistance against sundry medications due to her daily Vicodin, taken in conjunction with her morning and evening vitamins.
I gave in, once. I was tired and on 3 hours of sleep. Her eyes, which were hazy with sleep seconds before, lit up as I gave her the miniscule blue tablet.
The next morning, I was awakened by screaming.
"WHAT did you give your grandmother?" My mom asked.
"She asked for a pain pill and I gave her one," I said, motioning to the large bottle of blue tablets. The morning sunbeams illumated the words "ONLY TO BE USED WITH DOCTOR'S CLEARANCE."
"Are you nuts? We're only supposed to give her half a tablet, only when the doctor says so. I can't believe you let her talk you in to giving one. I can't wake her up, and now she's going to be up all night."
She hesitates before storming out of the room, "But that's fine. You're the one who will be dealing with that anyway."
I take care of Grandmother during the evenings. The nights weren't supposed to be difficult, as she's technically able to do pretty much anything on her own, but refuses to because she's bossy. I was only supposed to dispense a midnight pill, which I have to retrieve from a locked cabinet, the way you lock up your liquor and cleaning solvents from a 4 year old. However- and this probably has to due with my naive and gullible qualities- she normally keeps me up til 5 am with requests, from the absurd to the insane. I'm told that my shift pales in comparison to my mother's, which I'd believe if I got to wake up in time to see the daytime.
If she doesn't keep me up with a dissertation on why I should provide her with foam-cushion pillows as opposed to feather-filled ones, I lie awake with anxiety. This isn't my normal anxiety, which usually centers on elaborate revenge fantasies against perceived injustices, but a different kind of anxiety that comes from living with a crazy old lady. Sometimes I worry that she'll get in to the pill cabinet. Sometimes I worry I'll walk past her bed to find her not breathing. Othertimes, I swear I hear the sounds of her walker moving across the floor, or the unmistakable hissing of a "burping" colostomy bag.
But most of the time, I'm terrified that I'll see my grandmother nude. Or half-nude.
This fear isn't entirely unfounded. Somehow, breaking your hip and losing your old modesty go hand-in-hand. This was the woman who famously tainted the memories of Thanksgiving 1997 by telling her gathered family that she prided herself upon shielding her nude figure from her husband during their entire marriage. Even though she just might be manic-depressive, at least she had her modesty.
But on the day of the Failed London Bombings, everything changed. I was grimly summoned to the living room to help Grandma with some sort of strap that was fastened around her mid-section. I knew enough to question its function. As she lifted her nightgown, I was greeted with the image of her nude back. She was wearing pajama pants, but to the south-west quadrant was the unmistakable shape of an 80-something year-old nipple, in profile.
After that day of terror, I developed a sort of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, where I can no longer look her in the eye without envisioning the cold, unblinking stare of an 80-something year-old nipple, which probably explains the inclination to hand over a Pain Pill without question. It might go away one day, but probably won't, which I fear might be a Last Straw of some sort. We're not sure if she'll ever be ready to move out of our house, which makes the situation even more unbearable. Perhaps my only way out would be the Oedipal method, with a self-mutilation of the eyes. But at least I won't find my way to the Capitol Stairs, if only because I technically don't have a car at my disposal.