Planned Obsolescence.
I.
Eric's paternal great-grandmother, who was 99, died last week at her nursing home in Montana. Hunter was named after her (Hunter was her last name.) I never got to meet her but I understand she was quite a lady; they tell me she ice-fished well into her 80s. I had her added to the temple's list of deaths and talked to Sarah about the importance of saying kaddish (the mourner's prayer) for our departed ancestors. She has stood beside me two Friday nights in a row and prayed it with me. Some day I hope she will teach her children to say kaddish for me.
II.
Yesterday (and by that I mean Sunday), we went to see Eric's maternal grandfather, Grandpa H, at the assisted-living facility. The place where he lives is clean and cheerful and too expensive for him now. He's 93 and is outliving his savings, so the aunts have to move him somewhere cheaper, which he is clearly dreading.
Eric and I both thought Grandpa H was doing quite well, as he seemed to be moving around easier and not to be affected as much by the crippling depression that he has faced since Grandma H died several years ago. As time went on, we realized why he seemed to be doing so much better: he is now not at all clear on some facts in his life. He was apprehensive about moving to a new home but could not recall how many years he had been living at this one. He told us twice that he would have to move to a new place, having apparently forgotten that we knew about it when we came in.
But the absolute worst fucking part from my point of view was that he seemed to have forgotten me entirely. He did not address me by name once during our visit, which is quite unusual. He answered my questions but seemed to be surprised after each one I asked, as though he weren't sure how I knew him. And when I told him how much better the air would be for him in the desert and related the story of how I became allergic to dust and smoke after living near the cotton gins of West Texas, he looked at me politely and asked, "Did you come from Texas by yourself?" just as if he were trying to make conversation with a stranger. I smiled and told him that I had, then moved on to discuss something else. I hugged him at the end of the visit and promised that we would bring the children to visit him more often, and he nodded stiffly and said, "Yes, that would be nice."
Then I cried all the way home and some more when I got home for good measure. Just like I'm crying now.
I never really knew my own grandparents and they are all dead now. So since I moved out here I have loved Eric's grandparents like my own and they have been kind enough to love me as though we had a genetic bond. Grandma H, may she rest in peace, used to call me her favorite granddaughter. Now she is gone and Grandpa, although still here in body, no longer knows me. If memory is how we keep each other alive, I feel like part of me has died before its time. I'm just going to be that nice young woman with the cute kids who means something somehow, but who knows what? Or why? And that is as good as it is ever going to be for me now.
The rest of the family is blessed enough to have decades of memories of Grandma and Grandpa, but for me it is far too short a season. That precious love that has for years sustained my spirit and made me feel so grateful to be a part of a family with traditions and stability is no more. I understand that this is a part of life and that it does not change anything that came before, but I still feel like someone has kicked me hard in the guts.
Must everything, then, fade away until there are only the faintest traces left of a smile, a voice, a love?
Eric's paternal great-grandmother, who was 99, died last week at her nursing home in Montana. Hunter was named after her (Hunter was her last name.) I never got to meet her but I understand she was quite a lady; they tell me she ice-fished well into her 80s. I had her added to the temple's list of deaths and talked to Sarah about the importance of saying kaddish (the mourner's prayer) for our departed ancestors. She has stood beside me two Friday nights in a row and prayed it with me. Some day I hope she will teach her children to say kaddish for me.
II.
Yesterday (and by that I mean Sunday), we went to see Eric's maternal grandfather, Grandpa H, at the assisted-living facility. The place where he lives is clean and cheerful and too expensive for him now. He's 93 and is outliving his savings, so the aunts have to move him somewhere cheaper, which he is clearly dreading.
Eric and I both thought Grandpa H was doing quite well, as he seemed to be moving around easier and not to be affected as much by the crippling depression that he has faced since Grandma H died several years ago. As time went on, we realized why he seemed to be doing so much better: he is now not at all clear on some facts in his life. He was apprehensive about moving to a new home but could not recall how many years he had been living at this one. He told us twice that he would have to move to a new place, having apparently forgotten that we knew about it when we came in.
But the absolute worst fucking part from my point of view was that he seemed to have forgotten me entirely. He did not address me by name once during our visit, which is quite unusual. He answered my questions but seemed to be surprised after each one I asked, as though he weren't sure how I knew him. And when I told him how much better the air would be for him in the desert and related the story of how I became allergic to dust and smoke after living near the cotton gins of West Texas, he looked at me politely and asked, "Did you come from Texas by yourself?" just as if he were trying to make conversation with a stranger. I smiled and told him that I had, then moved on to discuss something else. I hugged him at the end of the visit and promised that we would bring the children to visit him more often, and he nodded stiffly and said, "Yes, that would be nice."
Then I cried all the way home and some more when I got home for good measure. Just like I'm crying now.
I never really knew my own grandparents and they are all dead now. So since I moved out here I have loved Eric's grandparents like my own and they have been kind enough to love me as though we had a genetic bond. Grandma H, may she rest in peace, used to call me her favorite granddaughter. Now she is gone and Grandpa, although still here in body, no longer knows me. If memory is how we keep each other alive, I feel like part of me has died before its time. I'm just going to be that nice young woman with the cute kids who means something somehow, but who knows what? Or why? And that is as good as it is ever going to be for me now.
The rest of the family is blessed enough to have decades of memories of Grandma and Grandpa, but for me it is far too short a season. That precious love that has for years sustained my spirit and made me feel so grateful to be a part of a family with traditions and stability is no more. I understand that this is a part of life and that it does not change anything that came before, but I still feel like someone has kicked me hard in the guts.
Must everything, then, fade away until there are only the faintest traces left of a smile, a voice, a love?