The first time my grandmother died, I was eleven. She’d collapsed on the beach during a vacation she’d scrimped and saved years to take. My father was too distraught to talk to me. My mother inadvertently mended, then destroyed my heart when she assured me that Grams was still alive, then hastily clarifying that she’d live on in our hearts and memories. Even without the bad phrasing, it wouldn’t have been comforting. Were memories going to make me caramel cake, take me to the movie matinees and let me get chips AND a candy bar when we went to the store?
The family had gathered together at my Uncle Ronnie’s house to grieve and talk logistics of retrieving the body and funeral arrangements when we got a call that changed everything. “What? What? Say that again,” my uncle said, before putting the phone on speaker. The hospital made a mistake. Grams was alive, and while not exactly well, she was alert and in good spirits. A week later, her family and friends had a gathering that put a whole new spin on a Celebration of Life. A good time was had by all, except Uncle Ronnie, who sat at a table by himself and sulked after everyone ignored his tirade about the hospital, doctors and citizens of the country where Grams was prematurely declared dead. The party lasted into the night. Grams was usually a proponent of the “early to bed, early to rise” mantra, but you would’ve thought she was a night owl, the way she seemed to get more lively as the evening rolled on.
It seemed like we all had a bit too much fun, and the universe decided to even things out, because afterward, nearly all of us came down with some kind of flu. Grams was fine, and so was Uncle Ronnie. Apparently, sequestering himself helped. A born nurturer, Grams made a big pot of chicken soup and dropped it off for her friends and the more distant relatives in the area, then she pretty much camped out at hour house to nurse us back to health. My mom and I slowly felt well enough to go back to our normal routines.
My dad would go into his home office to work when he could, but it got to the point where his mom’s chicken soup wasn’t enough, and he went to his doctor. Then a specialist, then another and another. Test after test, all inconclusive. It took two years, but he eventually got a diagnosis of chronic fatigue syndrome. He had to leave his job, but Grams did her best to keep his spirits up, visiting him almost every day. On some occasions, he’d would angry and sad, and stop trying to stay so chipper, and I know he grieved his old life, but he was a believer in positive thinking.
There were a few weeks off and on where my dad felt decent, but for the most part, he was in pain, often to the point that he could barely get out of bed. My mom had to provide all the income now. The house became saturated by her bitterness and stress. My dad had tried to shield me from the tension, but my mom created enough misery for the two of them. As an adult, I understand, but as a young teen, I spent a lot of time lashing out at my family when I couldn’t avoid being home all together. To my annoyance, there came a point where I had to step up and stay home more often.
My Great Aunt Ethel got sick, and my grandma decided to go to her. I’d never met her, but the family stories painted my grandfather’s sister as a hateful and nasty old woman who never bothered to visit us and was mercifully too far away for my dad to make us go visit with her. In my opinion back then, Grams should’ve left her to fend for herself and stayed close by us, but my dad helped me see that he had us, while his aunt had no one, and it would only be a few weeks.
Grams had been gone for a week when my father felt steady enough to navigate the house with a cane instead of his walker. Two weeks in, and he was doing a full trip to the grocery store without assistance. That was a huge feat for someone who’d have to spend a week in bed after a doctor’s visit. He was even the one to pick Grams up from the airport, after she’d finished nursing her sister-in-law back to health, instead of Uncle Ronnie. It was amazing to see her, and she cried seeing my dad get out of the car and help her with her bag. She was just as cheerful as ever, pretty worn out from the trip, but so happy to see us and about my dad’s progress.
Grams was barely in town for 48 hours before my dad began to deteriorate again. Unfortunate, but not uncommon, the doctor explained. Life went on. Uncle Ronnie broke his leg, and Grams started spending more time over there. “I love my sons equally,” Grams had said to me on our trip to the matinee. I’d mostly grown out of the “Movies with Grandma” tradition at this point, but even at 13, I could tell that when my grandma invited me, she needed this more than I did. “Ronnie is having such a hard time. He’s just miserable, poor thing, and he lets me know it too. Your dad was so much sicker, but he’s the easier patient.”
After Ronnie healed up enough to get around again, he drove Gram to the other side of the state so she could visit her sister and attend her great niece’s graduation. But my great aunt, her daughter, son in law and grandchildren got so sick that they almost had to miss the event.
Grams wanted to stay and help them out, but Uncle Ronnie insisted that they leave before he and Grams caught the bug too. A kind neighbor agreed to check in on the family, and by the time Grams and Ronnie made it back to our town, we heard that Grams’ sister and her brood were on the mend.
I guess my mom noticed the pattern first, because she was screaming about it when I got off the bus shortly after this. “Making you sick. You have to see it; look at your aunt and cousins.” Entering the house, I heard my mom railing about Munchausen’s and angel of death nurses. I couldn’t really follow it, and after hours of my dad trying and failing to smooth things over, he packed a small bag and left for Grams’ house.
My mom forbade me to visit, but obviously, I did anyway. Sure enough, about a week in, my dad was clearly unwell again.
I’m not sure how Grams understood me through the borderline hysterics, but I blubbered out the argument my mother had. My dad told me to stop, but that wasn’t an option anymore, and Grams said she wanted to hear me out.
After I finished accusing my grandmother of poisoning my dad and her sister’s family, she was in tears. She retreated to her bedroom, and my dad summoned the strength to read me the riot act. Twenty minutes later, Ronnie was in the driveway, complaining that Grams had insisted that he come over and take me and my dad back home.
My dad was furious at my mom, and at me, to a lesser extent, but as the days passed, there was no denying that he was doing better at home than he was at his mother’s place.
Vindicated, my mom was talking about bringing charges against Grams, but my dad didn’t want to discuss it. He did stay in contact with Grams by phone, but she refused to see him in person. Ronnie would visit Grams weekly, and when he told us that she seemed to be deteriorating, I worried, in spite of myself. When Grams ended up in the ICU, my mom thought it was justice. My dad tried to visit, but our family had been placed on the hospital’s “do not admit” list.
My dad finally got to see his mother after his brother called to inform us that she’d died for a second time. I wasn’t allowed past the waiting room, so the details of what happened in that hospital room are a mystery to me, but my dad came back, pale and confused, and explained that there had been another mistake, and Grams was alive after all. I guess the hospital took pity on my father, or thought it wouldn’t matter, since Grams was unconscious, but they let him sit with her daily, and as she improved, he declined. At first, he blamed the stress and lack of sleep on his disease flaring up, but my mom sensed that it was something deeper than that, and she begged him to put an end to the bedside vigil. Ultimately, he had no choice, because when Grams woke up, she had him removed from the hospital.
When Grams went home, she called our house and told us she loved us, but we couldn’t ever see her again. She insisted that there would be no visitation at the funeral. In fact, she wanted to be buried before the service, and none of us were to ever visit her final resting place. She asked me to leave the conversation, then she spoke to my dad for a long time in private. Uncle Ronnie kept us up to speed after Grams health took another turn for the worse. She refused to return to the hospital, opting to hire an in home nurse. Ronnie said the person Grams chose to hire was technically competent, but had a terrible bedside manner. A short time later, we received the news that Grams had passed.
It’s been ten years since Grams died the fourth time. Yes, fourth. Despite my grandma’s instructions, my grieving and skeptical dad decided to visit the mortuary for a final goodbye. I overheard him telling my mom how he got out of there after he saw color returning to Grams’ face. The loss hurt, but the family did okay. The memories of Grams were a comfort, but the thought of them keeping her alive in a way was even less heartening than it was the firszt time I’d heard that sentiment. My father was healthy. Ronnie is healthy, though just as difficult as usual. We never went to the cemetery.
That should’ve been the end. But my dad just got a letter informing him that some graves, including my Grams’ needed to be disinterred. Something about ground erosion in the area. People say kindness is contagious, and I think that was true about the good soul that my Grams possessed, but not in the way the adage is usually meant.
Cemeteries are not usually bastions of positivity and joy, and even if they were, no one was lingering at my grandmother’s grave, reminiscing about the good times. If there is a Heaven, I hope Grams is in it, and I pray the people tasked with moving her grave are cold and uncaring enough to keep her there.