"Never Get Old"

I sit at my desk in school, anticipating going home. I know that when I come through the door my great-grandmother, who my family calls Grandma Great, will be there. She’ll be sitting in her chair crocheting or folding laundry, or she’ll be in the kitchen straightening up or doing dishes. I love the visits, usually a few weeks at a time, when she comes and stays at my house. When I get home from school, I’ll climb up on her lap. I tell her my stories, read her my favorite picture books, and in return she captivates me with stories of her own. She tells me about all my more distant aunts, uncles, and cousins- people I rarely see but am intrigued by because of the stories she tells me about them. She recounts to me her childhood and adolescence; she tells of the things she did with her kids, then later her grandkids.

I love to help Grandma Great. She lets me make her coffee in the mornings, and tells me it’s the best coffee in the world. I thrive off of her praise, thrilled that of all the people who make her coffee in the mornings, the coffee made by me is her favorite. She tells me how smart I am, and has me help her count her money, or find something important in her purse. I sign and address birthday cards for her, to be sent to all of her grandchildren and other great-grandchildren, all of which she knows the birthdays of and how old they’re turning. I’m honored that she asks me to do these things for her, instead of asking my mom or my dad to do it for her.

            Over the years, Grandma’s visits have gradually made her an integral part of my life. I share my room with her when she comes. She comes shopping, to the park, and to the zoo with my family- wherever we go, she comes too. Every time she comes, it seems as if she had never left. She’s awake when I get up in the morning, waiting for her coffee; she’s there when I get home from school, bustling around. She makes cinnamon rolls or bread with me, teaching me recipes and tricks she had learned when she was young. She always keeps track of where I’m going and when I’m supposed to be there. Her energetic presence is constant and predictable; a part of my life that makes everything comfortable and seem as though things will never go wrong.

            Now, a few years later, as Grandma arrives, we walk out to help her into the house, my mom on one side of her and I on the other. My brothers run out to grab her bags, including the large one that rattles with all the medications she now must take, as well as with the new addition of her “pink Cadillac”- the walker her doctor encouraged her to purchase. My brothers carry the bags to the bedroom on the main floor, where she stays because she can no longer climb the stairs. She carefully eases herself down into her chair in the corner of the front room, where she has always sat. She loves this spot because the sun shines through the windows on her and keeps her worn body warm, though now she keeps a blanket over her legs as well. I sit down next to her and tell her about what I’ve been doing recently, and she responds with questions I’ve already answered. While we talk, her frail hand grasps mine. Grandma soon falls asleep in her chair. Her cat-naps in the sun are quite frequent. Her crocheting, laundry-folding, and electronic poker have been exchanged for these peaceful, needed naps. In fact, her trips to the store or out to lunch- pretty much everywhere- have been replaced by these naps. Even just having company visit tires her quickly, let alone a trip to the store or out to dinner. Almost as tiring for her is trying to remember if and when company is coming that day, what she needs at the store, and when it’s time for her to eat.

            The next morning my mom is at work. I awake, make myself some breakfast, and wait for Grandma to get up. She comes in and I put her hot chocolate and half of a bagel at her spot at the table. She nibbles at her bagel and sips at her cocoa. She swallows her pills, taking painstaking care not to drop any as she shakes them out of the bottles, and looks over at me from the side of her right eye, the place where she has a bit of blurry vision left. “I’ve taken my pills,” she informs me. She continues to nibble and sip until her breakfast is gone. “I took my pills already, right?” she says with a lack of conviction. “Yes Grams,” I respond. As she makes her way to her room to put her pills away I remind her to let me know when she’s ready to shower. This is something Grandma Great has only recently begun needing help with, and something I have never had to help her with.

            She comes down the hall pushing her pink Cadillac laden with her shower supplies and clothes for the day. I follow her to the bathroom. She double checks to make sure she has everything she needs, then begins to undress her frail, wrinkled body. Once, when my brother was younger he had asked how tall she thought she’d be if we ironed out all her wrinkles. Seeing her exposed body now, I realize that she would be much taller than he probably thought. “Your mother usually starts the water before I get in, to make sure it’s the right temperature,” she indicates while she struggles with her clothing. I start the water, and get it to what I hope is the right temperature, and help her into the shower, handing her the soap.

            I always thought that Grandma would be around forever; that she’d never grown older and would never start to; that her memory would never fade. But it did. Old was something that it seemed that a person was. Old was something that meant you had gray hair, and told a lot of stories about the good old days. It was something you were, not something you grew to be, and it surely wasn’t something that continued to affect you and change you. But now, I see the toll time charges. Time had been waiting, and when it got its opportunity it had hastily snatched her body and her mind.

I see that old means change, that old is not just gray hair like I once thought it to be. A child grew to an adult, and then with age, that adult turned back almost to a child again. This rang true to me as I finished helping Grandma with a task she had been doing herself for ninety years.

            Soon, grandma is done showering. I help her out of the shower, and help her dry her back. Bare, cold and naked, Grandma seems so small. Just taking a short shower has exhausted her. As I turn to leave, she sighs, “Never get old, my dear.”