Grandmother

Two nights ago I almost had the candle stable in my mind and myself grounded when I saw my grandmother flash behind my eyes and jerked from my attempted meditations. Something wasn’t right. I lie back down and try to focus on my breathing again ignoring the fact that my grandmother is in hospice care and probably won’t make it past the holidays. This is not a normal reaction for a granddaughter. I like to say I’m indifferent, but really, if I were indifferent, I wouldn’t be writing this now while she lies on her death bed.

She is not a nice woman. Growing up, my memories are colored with uncomfortable silences, disapproval, and illogical rules – almost cruel to young children who do not know better or can’t fully comprehend. Now, as an adult, I understand, and I loathe her more for it. She frequently accused me of things that I did not do, and then never apologized when the truth was clear. The day I stopped loving my grandmother was the day I started protecting my sister. It’s silly in retrospect, but in the memories of childhood, events are bigger and mean so much more than adults can even start to remember.

My sister had opened a new coke to drink and poured it over ice. After three sips, she left it and it became watered down so much that later when forced to drink it, I gagged and vomited. My grandmother saw that my sister had ‘wasted’ half a coke and told her that if she didn’t drink all of it she would be in trouble. A dire threat to a sensitive eight year old, who had a grandmother that would follow through. Heather cried saying that it tasted horrible and that she couldn’t do it as my grandmother stood there watching silently. There was no compassion in her eyes, so when she left the room, I drank as much as I could choke down and dumped the rest as I threw up brown liquid.

A small incident to an adult or to those who have experienced far worse from family members, but it was in that moment that I realized my grandmother didn’t love me or my sister. There were other situations throughout my life that reinforced what I learned that day, such as the cabbage showdown, the smoking inquisition, and the broken ballet slippers, but this event was the beginning. Over the years, I tried to separate myself from this woman in order to avoid awkward, uncomfortable, disappointing situations where it would be proven yet again that she didn’t love us. I chose not to hug her unless forced. I chose not to stay in the same room when she visited. When I could finally drive, I rarely saw her at all. I was twenty-two when I learned more about my father’s childhood and began to hate her.
So, now I write this and think about the woman who has lost her mind and can’t remember me. I want to forgive her, but I can’t. She is a broken woman who never recovered, and I can’t think past her abandoning my aunt and her best friend on the side of the road because they were giggling too much in the back seat, or how she inadvertently forced my father to drop out of high school to join the Marines to support his brothers and sister.

Even though she wouldn’t recognize me, I’m afraid to visit her – afraid of her judgment and my inability to forgive. I’m afraid her mental illness is hiding somewhere in my genetic code waiting until my mind begins to slip. I hope her death comes painlessly. That is all the compassion I have.