I've been trying to write about my Granddaddy for a while now but I get very upset and just hit 'delete' and go get some more coffee. I'm not good at sickness and death. Not good at all.
They thought my Momma had cancer in 2001 and it was the worst few weeks of my life. My father called me and told me I needed to come to the hospital right away. I started breathing all heavy and he said, "Dresden...we have to be strong for your mother. Do your best NOT TO CRY." My father hates it when women cry. It's a deep rooted...thing. Too deep for a blog post. Anyway, I lasted for about 2 minutes before I turned into a giant blubbering snotty mess. I was no one's rock; I was hysterically crying looking at my small pale mommy in the hospital bed, in pain and scared. My whole world was being ripped in half and it hurt more than anything I'd ever experienced.
When I saw Steph for the last time, I held her hand and we watched Casablanca. When I left her room, I knew I would never see her again and I couldn't breathe. I managed to walk out of the room but the minute I was out of view and earshot, I fell apart. Like gasping for air, legs giving out, Florida on Good Times falling to her knees after James died yelling "Damn, damn, DAMN!" fell apart. I was on the hospice ward and I guess they are used to that because, without a word, a nurse grabbed my elbow, kept me steady on my feet and walked me to the elevator.
I also hate hospitals and nursing homes. I used to work with people who had HIV and AIDS and some of them were too sick to live on their own. I found nursing homes to be careless waste lands of the forgotten. The staff was usually playing cards or watching Judge Mathis while residents lay in their own filth. The only time I went to a nice nursing home was when my rich ex-boyfriend took me to visit his rich grandmother in what I can only assume was a country club for the elderly. If you don't have money, nobody cares.
I hate staying in hospitals, mostly because it's boring and all dignity goes out the window. BUT. The drugs are amazing. What I hate more is going to visit people in the hospital. It's like walking into a mall you've never been to. You don't know where anything is. Also, everyone is sick and it smells like cleanser and just a touch of urine. When they did my mother's hysterectomy it was just after the cancer scare and I went to the hospital and I couldn't find her. I couldn't find her or anyone else in my family and the staff was like, "Um...she's in surgery." I fucking know that, but WHERE IS SHE?! I finally just sat down and cried for like an hour. When I went to see Steph at Mayo, I went to the information desk and said, "I'm looking for a patient, her name is Stephanie Perry." The woman typed on her computer and said, "I found a Stephanie Johnson." I was anxious and terrified and I lost my mind. "Perry. STEPHANIE PERRY. She has cancer. WHERE IS SHE?"
I'd like to pretend that I can handle death and illness but I simply cannot. And right now, my Granddaddy is very ill. He was near death, started getting better and now, he's doing weird, confusing shit. I'm not going to lie to you and say my grandfather and I were very close all my life and he gave me Werther's original butterscotch candies and told me stories of his youth. Mostly, he asked me why I wasn't interested in religion, commented on my weight and made it clear that women were not his equals. But he also took me to see The Empire Strikes Back and let me have candy and popcorn. And often when he talked to me about religion, he held my hands and spoke to me in that gentle grandfather kind of way. He's always been confusing to me but I also know that he has seen and been through more things in his life than I will ever, ever understand. And because he endured, I am here and I went to college and have a job and can support myself. All of that is because of what he went through. I recognize and respect that.
The other day, my father was talking to his father on the phone. Granddaddy said, "I'm going to the football game. I'm just pulling into the parking lot now." This, of course, is not true. He was sitting in his nursing home bed in South Carolina. Then there was silence and my grandmother came on the line and said, "Well Sonny...he just put the covers over his head."
While I am worried that something is wrong in his brain--a stroke or something equally alarming--I take comfort in thinking that maybe he's just in his Happy Place right now in response to all the trauma he's gone through in the past few months. I hope he is going to the football game. I can't help but smile picturing it: my big, 80 year old Granddaddy throwing the covers over his head, saying he's going to the football game. No, it's not funny. But if he needs to feel something other than helpless and sick, let him go to the goddamned football game.
No comments:
Post a Comment