Grandmother dying; Family puts political differences behind them
I doubt there are many 22-year-olds who can say that they have two living great grandmothers, but I do. One turns 95 in a little more than a week and the other is a few years younger.
The 95-year-old, who is my mother's mother's mother and who is known to me as Grandma Hiser, is dying. When I get off work today, I am going to call home so that my parents and I can talk about this turn of events. We haven't spoken since the election, but I guess that a lot of that is going to cease to matter once my mother and I talk this evening.
I'm expecting to hear my mom cry, because she was close to Grandma Hiser. And I can put aside a silly grudge about the election so that I can hear what's happening in my loved one's final days and so that we can remember her.
And I feel sad that Grandma Hiser is dying, but it's a weird sort of sadness because it's time. She's lived a remarkably full life--living on her own and gardening, canning jellies, making candies, and driving herself around until she was nearly 90. It was only about two years ago that she gave up making beautiful, elaborate quilts--all hand-sewn, and even up until about a week ago, she could still take anyone in a game of canasta or dominoes. But her memory is fading, and it's horribly difficult on her children and grandchildren that she can't remember them anymore.
And she must be in so much pain. My Grandma Williams (G. Hiser's daughter) once said that it was difficult taking Grandma Hiser to the doctor because she wouldn't really complain about anything. The doctors would ask her to estimate her pain on a scale of 1-10 and she would always say 2 or 3 because she knew that it could be so much worse than it was.
I remember eating the cherry tomatoes from her garden like they were candy, and her candies like they were my last meal. I remember going with her to her beauty salon, where she had her old lady perm made tighter, more lacquered. And the summer after my freshman year, when I worked at Sunset Home, the nursing home she has been living in, she would always be so happy to see me in the halls, in the dining room, and the little beauty shop. I'd pop in on her from time to time to see how she was doing.
I remember that in her old house, she had tinker toys in the coat closet for me and my sister to play with. Every time we'd visit, Sara and I would sit so patiently, waiting for the queue to get them out and dump them all over the living room floor. I loved those tinker toys and suspected that she had had them since my mom and aunt were young enough to be the ones waiting patiently to get them from the closet.
I remember that the doorbell at her house played "Greensleeves," which I thought was so cool. And she had little decorative soaps in her bathroom that I doubted she ever used. Once when I spent the night at her house, she asked me why I hadn't used her little flower soaps and instead opted for the bar of Dial. I probably shrugged, but I knew that I couldn't possibly use something that was so nice that even she wouldn't use them herself.
I remember how she loved NBA basketball--especially the Chicago Bulls. She would sit on the arm of her chair when she felt like they could use the extra coaching.
She made my baby quilt. She made the bedding that was in my dollhouse. She made all of her grandchildren hand-sewn Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls.
Last but not least, she supported three children for two years while her husband was in World War II. She was blunt and witty and could've lived for years with the slimmest of pickings.
She is one of the strongest and most admirable people that you could ever know. She is one in a billion and she is dying. I realize that I have largely used the past tense while speaking of her, but that is largely because she isn't what she once was. She is small and frail and living out her last days in a railed bed in a nursing home that overlooks a cemetery. She will truly be missed.
The 95-year-old, who is my mother's mother's mother and who is known to me as Grandma Hiser, is dying. When I get off work today, I am going to call home so that my parents and I can talk about this turn of events. We haven't spoken since the election, but I guess that a lot of that is going to cease to matter once my mother and I talk this evening.
I'm expecting to hear my mom cry, because she was close to Grandma Hiser. And I can put aside a silly grudge about the election so that I can hear what's happening in my loved one's final days and so that we can remember her.
And I feel sad that Grandma Hiser is dying, but it's a weird sort of sadness because it's time. She's lived a remarkably full life--living on her own and gardening, canning jellies, making candies, and driving herself around until she was nearly 90. It was only about two years ago that she gave up making beautiful, elaborate quilts--all hand-sewn, and even up until about a week ago, she could still take anyone in a game of canasta or dominoes. But her memory is fading, and it's horribly difficult on her children and grandchildren that she can't remember them anymore.
And she must be in so much pain. My Grandma Williams (G. Hiser's daughter) once said that it was difficult taking Grandma Hiser to the doctor because she wouldn't really complain about anything. The doctors would ask her to estimate her pain on a scale of 1-10 and she would always say 2 or 3 because she knew that it could be so much worse than it was.
I remember eating the cherry tomatoes from her garden like they were candy, and her candies like they were my last meal. I remember going with her to her beauty salon, where she had her old lady perm made tighter, more lacquered. And the summer after my freshman year, when I worked at Sunset Home, the nursing home she has been living in, she would always be so happy to see me in the halls, in the dining room, and the little beauty shop. I'd pop in on her from time to time to see how she was doing.
I remember that in her old house, she had tinker toys in the coat closet for me and my sister to play with. Every time we'd visit, Sara and I would sit so patiently, waiting for the queue to get them out and dump them all over the living room floor. I loved those tinker toys and suspected that she had had them since my mom and aunt were young enough to be the ones waiting patiently to get them from the closet.
I remember that the doorbell at her house played "Greensleeves," which I thought was so cool. And she had little decorative soaps in her bathroom that I doubted she ever used. Once when I spent the night at her house, she asked me why I hadn't used her little flower soaps and instead opted for the bar of Dial. I probably shrugged, but I knew that I couldn't possibly use something that was so nice that even she wouldn't use them herself.
I remember how she loved NBA basketball--especially the Chicago Bulls. She would sit on the arm of her chair when she felt like they could use the extra coaching.
She made my baby quilt. She made the bedding that was in my dollhouse. She made all of her grandchildren hand-sewn Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls.
Last but not least, she supported three children for two years while her husband was in World War II. She was blunt and witty and could've lived for years with the slimmest of pickings.
She is one of the strongest and most admirable people that you could ever know. She is one in a billion and she is dying. I realize that I have largely used the past tense while speaking of her, but that is largely because she isn't what she once was. She is small and frail and living out her last days in a railed bed in a nursing home that overlooks a cemetery. She will truly be missed.