I just pissed. I opened the refrigerator and tried to put it somewhere on the bottom shelf, but I didn't seem to have any room. So I rolled down the top of the bag and tried to cram it in ... and suddenly something fell. I didn't notice that there was a pot that Grandmother laid on top of this jar at the bottom of the fridge and I knocked it over. It was soup with chunks of meat -- something she was saving for tomorrow. She should've put it on one of the upper shelves, of course, but there's still such a damn mess that that was the least of my worries.
I hate spilled liquids; there was so much soup that it went everywhere, and invariably I have no idea where and how to start. And I knew the clanging of the pot would make somebody come out of their room. It, unfortunately, was Grandmother, who I had to tell I spilled over her food, even though I couldn't because I didn't know how to say it.
But I pointed to the kitchen, and she went over, and when she saw the mess she knew what to do; she's cleaned up all of our messes when we were kids. She started getting rags and old shirts from another room and laid them down and wiped the floor with her foot to sop up the soup.
And, believe it or not, I was transported. This is the Grandmother I grew up with, taking charge, taking control, know what needs to be done and doing it with minimal fuss or guff, not pointing fingers or yelling, just telling me to get out of the way when I wanted to use the Swiffer to eliminate the odor. She was nothing like the doddling, unsteady, short term-memory-deficient old lady I've had to grow accustomed to these past several months. She was there to make things alright, like she always had.
And so, even though this sounds way cruel, I'm kind of happy how knocking over that pot of soup turned out. Like taking a nap next to her, I felt safe in the company of my patient, strong, and loving Grandmother.
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