When I was still a child, my 5 foot tall grandma would climb into her olive green hulk of a Buick Regal and make the forty five minute drive from North Vancouver to Coquitlam to see my family and I. She would do this for Christmas, Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving and any amount of time in between. I think she enjoyed the drive just as much as the company. In the following years she certainly talked about how much she missed her car. The husband who lived and died in Sweden was rarely mentioned. Just the car.
During one of her trips to our house, she found out that by making roaring noises (which, to my amusement, also had a thick Swedish Accent) and shuffling along with her hands outstretched as if to grab us, she could send my friends and I into a flurry of delightfully frightened shrieks. For this reason my friends would always comment on how much they loved my grandma. Of course, it could have just been that they thought it was almost a game to try and figure out what she was saying. I can assure you, her accent was nearly as incomprehensible as her printing. I hope you can understand when I say I remember what she did more than what she said.
If the weather permitted, she would sit out in our backyard in a lawn chair and read a magazine, her bulky sunglasses taking up most of her face, while her broad-brimmed hat cast the rest in shadow. Mostly everything I remember about her was big, except for her own body. She could drown herself in jewellery, accessories and clothing, but never make it look like she was suffocating. While at her apartment, my sister and I would play dress up with her necklaces and old clothing, stumbling around in oversized shoes and wearing shirts like dresses. She would laugh and exclaim “How beautiful!” Of course, we could have been wearing a potato sack and mismatched socks and she still would have been proud to have us as her grandchildren.
She gave me a plain black notebook one year for Christmas. In it are my first attempts at writing. It was terrible. Complete rubbish that should be burned so that no one can read it. She never knew that she started my dreams of becoming a writer. But it’s the meaning behind it, correct? In this way, her simple gift has encouraged me more than all the pestering of my parents.
She was so independent. She lived most of her Canadian life without her husband, raising her four kids by herself. For as long as I can remember, she relied on no one for help; she got herself dressed in the morning, made her own meals, drove anywhere she wanted to go, then changed back into her pajamas at night. She was the type of woman who I could look up to, and hoped to be when I got to her age. Her rapid mental decline was a cold slap from reality.
“Who is this?” Her shaky voice said over the phone, many years after these memories.
“I am Bjorn’s daughter.” I explained slowly, enunciating every word carefully, for I know that her hearing is going. “He isn’t home right now.”
There is a long pause, which turned to babbling, and in turn became sobbing. Through her cries I can faintly make out her words; “Why did no one tell me he was dead?”
I know that in the past year, she had started thinking that my dad-her son- was her husband, who had died about eight years ago. We had put up with it, knowing that she was at least happy thinking her husband was alive. This, however… This was heart rending. One should not hear their own grandmother cry and not feel a deep sorrow.
“No, no!” I quickly try to correct her. “He is alive, he is just not home.”
Another pause, in which time I could literally hear her trying to work out what I have said. She murmured incomprehensibly, as if talking to herself. “Do not tell me he is dead! He is not dead! Why did no one tell me?” She broke down into another series of sobs.
“He’s not dead!” I desperately tried to console her. “He is alive, but not home at the moment.”
“He… He is not dead?”
“No, he is not dead.” I repeated once again.
“Oh… Okay. Maybe I will call his mother then.”
By now I had become used to her thoughts, such as this one. I could only be relieved that I had at least calmed her down. I said a quick ‘okay, goodbye.’ before hanging up.
Tell me, would you rather have a perfect mind but trapped inside a degrading body, or be free of body and trapped by a failing mind?
((And once again, all that copyright stuff. This is my work, so don't take any credit for it.))
No comments:
Post a Comment