Roughly a year and a half ago, my dad's mother, who to me is Grandma Watson, fell in her home during the night and could not get herself up. A friend found her the following morning, and my grandmother was taken to the hospital. She never returned home after that.
Since then, Grandma Watson has lived in two nursing facilities. Last year at this time, she was at the first one, and when I saw her at Thanksgiving, neither she nor any of us, her family, knew for sure whether she'd be returning to the lovely house she'd lived in for the past 60 years or so. Now, a year later, we all know, including her, that she won't be going home, ever.
My Grandma Watson is in her mid- or late eighties, and she's suffering from a variety of illnesses. To put it frankly, she's not doing well, and she's not the same woman she was. She is clearly in her last stage of life, and knowing this is very, very tough. I think about her and worry about her and feel sad for her daily. Therapist C pointed out that I have been grieving for her as if she were already gone, which, in a certain way, she is, if I think of her the way she was 20, 15, 10, or even five years ago.
So, that's the background for this and a few upcoming posts about my Grandma Watson. The other thing you need to know is that she has always been and remains one of the most important and beloved people in my life.
Grandma Watson's House
My grandma and pop-pop lived in a medium-sized, Victorian-style home built in the late nineteenth century. This house was as much a member of our family as I am. It had character, it had quirks, it was larger than life, it could be
temperamental, it was intimidating. As a child, I found parts of it wonderfully warm and sunny and bright and cheery (like the living room, television room, dining room, and first-floor kitchen) and other parts creepy and antiquated and mysterious (like the upstairs hallway, the upstairs kitchen, "the boys'" bedroom, the attic, and the basement).
It was an old house, so it hardly resembled the cookie-cutter 1970s suburban Colonial I was growing up in. Grandma Watson's house had creaky floors. Certain rooms had old, frail-looking wallpaper adorned with faded, almost Baroque-looking patterns. The
lightswitch in the foyer was push-button style, which I know dates back to at least the 1920s, probably much earlier. That same foyer also housed a looming, dark-stained valet, with a hard little bench and great big brass coat hooks. In its center was an ancient-looking mirror, pitted and scratched. To my brother and me, these domestic features were fascinating and a little fearsome.
The dining room was the center of my family's universe. It's where all major-holiday meals took place and where so much of the laughter and story-telling and good-natured ribbing happened. My grandma at her end of the table, my pop-pop at the other, with my mom, dad, one uncle, and Grandma George on one side and me, my brother, my other uncle, my aunt, and my two cousins (once they were born, of course) on the other. Some years there was more family in attendance, other years less. Regardless, it was a place where I utterly belonged. I always sat directly to Grandma Watson's left.
I remember the feeling of being in that room for one of those meals: the combination of way more food than I normally ate, so many people huddled around the table, and multiple hours of waxing and waning adult conversation---punctuated by bursts of laughter---would lull me gradually into a very relaxed, sleepy state. It was all so comforting. I would give anything to relive, say, Easter Dinner, 1983.
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OK. This has been a lot, so I'll continue in future posts.
Thanks for reading!
