I don't think I've blogged about her. If I haven't, or even if I already have, I should.
So I visit Grandmother's best friend, who, because of her late husband, gets to live in a veterans' home. It's hell of a long way from where I live, and it is a pain in the ass. But it was a pain in the ass to visit Grandmother in St. Paul, but I did it because I love her. I love Grandmother's friend, too, even though, as a kid, I would always be angry about her cutting my hair. That's how I know her: Grandmother would always take me and my brother to see her, when she didn't live too far away, and she would cut my hair. She was good, even though I never was mature enough to admit that to her.
My days of getting my hair cut by her have been long gone, of course. She got older, she lost her husband, had to stop cutting hair and then, eventually, moved to a home. (This is her second home; the first one was close to our house, and she had an apartment. I think she said that she had to move out because it was getting too expensive.) And even though I tried getting those two to talk to each other once we shipped Grandmother out to Hong Kong, the time difference, where we would have to initiate the call at around midnight, made it impossible. I think I remember the last time those two saw each other, when Grandmother was in the St. Paul home. I brought Grandmother's friend there, and I think she arranged plans to get picked up by someone else. I hope the visit was worth it for them.
I've tried to see this friend a little more often now that Grandmother has died. I try monthly, but when I visited this afternoon it probably was closer to two months. Her frailty is getting to her. When she was first in the nursing home, we had conversations where she would start to meander, but I thought it was just because she was so lonely. Now, I can tell what she is going to say because it's the same things she says every time I come over: How long has Grandmother been gone; I plan on going to Paris to see my friend; there's this guy on the floor who likes me, etc. She has gotten to a point where she sometimes repeats things she has said on my visit already, and that makes me sad. But I never got the impression that she was physically on the decline.
However, I have always been afraid of that, because one day, she will physically be on the decline. In fact, because I am not family, if she dies, I won't know that until I go down to her home, visit her room, and see a nameplate with a different nameplate. It'll be such a macabre and sad feeling, made worse by the tragic comedy of thinking she was alive and then learning through a nurse that she's dead. And since I have no business being there besides her, I'll have nothing to do except, you know, leaving. Just show up, "Oh, she died, sorry," and sign myself out. That sequence of events is so pathetic, and yet I know that's going to happen one day. And maybe soon.
I dropped down to see her this afternoon, but she was asleep. She was lying face up, and she appeared to be a little more frail around the face than I remember. (Better than the bruises I saw she had a couple visits ago; hope to Buddha that was from a fall and not, uh, man-made.) I didn't want to wake her up because, hey, would you want to be waken up from a good sleep just to say hi? I sure wouldn't. But I'm scared as all get-out that that is the last image of Grandmother's best friend I will have while she's alive. It has gotten to be a chore to listen to her, to be honest. But better that than the day I learn she is gone.
So I visit Grandmother's best friend, who, because of her late husband, gets to live in a veterans' home. It's hell of a long way from where I live, and it is a pain in the ass. But it was a pain in the ass to visit Grandmother in St. Paul, but I did it because I love her. I love Grandmother's friend, too, even though, as a kid, I would always be angry about her cutting my hair. That's how I know her: Grandmother would always take me and my brother to see her, when she didn't live too far away, and she would cut my hair. She was good, even though I never was mature enough to admit that to her.
My days of getting my hair cut by her have been long gone, of course. She got older, she lost her husband, had to stop cutting hair and then, eventually, moved to a home. (This is her second home; the first one was close to our house, and she had an apartment. I think she said that she had to move out because it was getting too expensive.) And even though I tried getting those two to talk to each other once we shipped Grandmother out to Hong Kong, the time difference, where we would have to initiate the call at around midnight, made it impossible. I think I remember the last time those two saw each other, when Grandmother was in the St. Paul home. I brought Grandmother's friend there, and I think she arranged plans to get picked up by someone else. I hope the visit was worth it for them.
I've tried to see this friend a little more often now that Grandmother has died. I try monthly, but when I visited this afternoon it probably was closer to two months. Her frailty is getting to her. When she was first in the nursing home, we had conversations where she would start to meander, but I thought it was just because she was so lonely. Now, I can tell what she is going to say because it's the same things she says every time I come over: How long has Grandmother been gone; I plan on going to Paris to see my friend; there's this guy on the floor who likes me, etc. She has gotten to a point where she sometimes repeats things she has said on my visit already, and that makes me sad. But I never got the impression that she was physically on the decline.
However, I have always been afraid of that, because one day, she will physically be on the decline. In fact, because I am not family, if she dies, I won't know that until I go down to her home, visit her room, and see a nameplate with a different nameplate. It'll be such a macabre and sad feeling, made worse by the tragic comedy of thinking she was alive and then learning through a nurse that she's dead. And since I have no business being there besides her, I'll have nothing to do except, you know, leaving. Just show up, "Oh, she died, sorry," and sign myself out. That sequence of events is so pathetic, and yet I know that's going to happen one day. And maybe soon.
I dropped down to see her this afternoon, but she was asleep. She was lying face up, and she appeared to be a little more frail around the face than I remember. (Better than the bruises I saw she had a couple visits ago; hope to Buddha that was from a fall and not, uh, man-made.) I didn't want to wake her up because, hey, would you want to be waken up from a good sleep just to say hi? I sure wouldn't. But I'm scared as all get-out that that is the last image of Grandmother's best friend I will have while she's alive. It has gotten to be a chore to listen to her, to be honest. But better that than the day I learn she is gone.
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