Hands
I have a picture of my grandma's hands in my head. She had arthritis, like her mother before her and like my mother, now. I know it's coming for me, too, and on especially cold days I can feel an ache in my finger joints that seems especially foreboding. My fingers right now are straight on my laptop keyboard, except for my lefthand pinky that bends to the right just above the top knuckle. I look at it and I can see what my hands will probably turn into. Grandma's fingers were a little crooked and gnarled, like someone stuck the bones back together in slightly the wrong configuration, her skin spotted with age and her knuckles swollen. But her nails were always nicely polished, usually a shade of pink. She always had her wedding ring on, a thick gold band with a diamond, and an art-deco-ish ring that had been her mother's.
When she first got sick, it started in her fingers. She showed me while we sat together at the kitchen island at the lake, unwinding the gauze to reveal the blackened tip. Her finger was dying. At the time we didn't think much of it—it seemed fixable. She was going to the doctor. Otherwise she was still her energetic self, and even the finger didn't really stop her—not from gardening, not from carting around her ever-present laundry basket full of items that needed to go from home to the lake house, or from the lake house back home, not from doing the intricate stained glass work she did every Thursday with her best friends.
They put her on steroids, and they worked. Her fingers came back to life, her hands stopped aching and keeping her up at night. But the rest of her swelled up—her face, her arms, her feet, her body. She read the side effects list for the steroids to me, particularly interested in the part that said "may experience inappropriate happiness."
"I don't know what this medicine is going to make me do, but you'll need to forgive me if I start acting crazy," she said.
But it wasn't inappropriate happiness that plagued her, it was excessive sadness. She started crying at everything—at the sink while she was washing dishes, when my uncle asked her if she wanted a piece of cake, when she was looking for her glasses. Whenever it happened, she'd say, "just ignore me!" But how do you ignore your crying grandma, the grandma who's always been so capable and strong and busy taking care of everyone else?
I know she was scared. She didn't like feeling weak, and the steroids made her weak. She couldn't eat normally, her stomach hurt, and she had a hard time moving around—and for someone like my grandma who was constantly on the move, that was tough. One visit to the lake she tripped over her own feet while carrying a laundry basket of towels. It scared the shit out of all of us, not only because she tripped, but because she cried after. Soon after she bent down to pick something up and had to ask me to help her stand because she couldn't get back up. That made her cry, too, but she just tried to pretend like the tears weren't there, bustling around like normal, a whirlwind of activity.
We tried to make her slow down, to rest, to stop worrying about all of us, but there was something half-hearted in our attempts. Look how much energy she still had! She was going to be fine.
Then when I walked in the door for the 4th of July weekend at the lake, my breath stopped in my throat—for a moment I thought she was her mother, Grandma T. She looked like a different person, huddled in her bathrobe under a blanket in a chair next to Grandpa, her hair messy, no makeup on, like she'd aged decades in just weeks. She looked old.
My grandma had never looked old, not really. It scared me.
She had pneumonia, the doctors said, so she was resting that week. We were supposed to fend for ourselves as far as food—we always tried to fend for ourselves, but this time was different because she actually let us. No following behind us to clean things up, no special recipe she'd ripped out of a magazine to try, no smorgasbord of food that appeared when we were already full from lunch an hour ago.
The next morning was Chapman Lake's pancake breakfast, so she got up early to go volunteer, despite everyone's assertions that she should just stay home and rest.
"People haven't been volunteering like they should be," she said. "I'm fine." She wasn't fine.
Michael and I were still asleep when Grandpa drove her home from the breakfast. We don't like pancakes enough to give up sleeping in, so we always stay home. I could hear the panic in my grandpa's voice through the thin walls of our bedroom as I became more aware of the morning sun cutting the red floral curtains, my bare legs, the pillow against my cheek, Michael's limbs around me. Without opening my eyes, I think, "Something must be wrong with Grandma," but I'm not awake yet, and it fails to stir up the proper concern in my limbs. Maybe it's because I can hear her voice, too.
"What do you want me to do?" My grandpa says, frustrated.
"Nothing," she sobs.
Michael nudges me, burrowing his cheek against my neck. "I think something's wrong with your grandma."
I hear Grandpa on the phone giving our address to someone, and suddenly I'm fully awake. I come out of the bed in one smooth movement, my heart pounding. Outside the bedroom door Grandpa is standing, pacing. He sees me.
"Your grandma's not feeling well. We're going to the hospital." After he sees me hesitate he says, "You can go in there. It's okay."
I go into their bedroom where she's writhing on the bed, clutching the sheets, moaning and crying. Grandma isn't very touchy-feely—whenever I hug her goodbye, she doesn't linger, just pats me on the back as if it makes her slightly uncomfortable. But in this moment it feels easy and right to curl up next to her, resting my head next to her shoulder and stroking the soft skin on her arm.
"It hurts so much," she whispers.
"Just try to relax," I say. "Take deep breaths." I don't know what I'm saying, words are just coming out.
Grandpa comes in the room with the two paramedics, a man and a woman. The man stands by Grandma's head.
"Hi, Pam. I understand you're in a lot of pain. We're going to try to figure out what's going on."
The male paramedic has Michael help lift the edge of the sheet so they can move Grandma to a gurney. She groans at the movement, grabbing her stomach and crying there on the gurney in the kitchen of the lake house. Grandpa is talking to the paramedic and I stand there, keeping my fingers on Grandma's arm so she knows I'm there. It seems important to me at that moment that she knows she's not alone, but she's in so much pain I'm not sure she knows anything.
"I'm not ready for this," I told Michael later. But still I didn't really think it was the end. My grandma was still relatively young, only 74. And she was so strong. They would figure this out and she'd be back to normal.
When she first got sick, it started in her fingers. She showed me while we sat together at the kitchen island at the lake, unwinding the gauze to reveal the blackened tip. Her finger was dying. At the time we didn't think much of it—it seemed fixable. She was going to the doctor. Otherwise she was still her energetic self, and even the finger didn't really stop her—not from gardening, not from carting around her ever-present laundry basket full of items that needed to go from home to the lake house, or from the lake house back home, not from doing the intricate stained glass work she did every Thursday with her best friends.
They put her on steroids, and they worked. Her fingers came back to life, her hands stopped aching and keeping her up at night. But the rest of her swelled up—her face, her arms, her feet, her body. She read the side effects list for the steroids to me, particularly interested in the part that said "may experience inappropriate happiness."
"I don't know what this medicine is going to make me do, but you'll need to forgive me if I start acting crazy," she said.
But it wasn't inappropriate happiness that plagued her, it was excessive sadness. She started crying at everything—at the sink while she was washing dishes, when my uncle asked her if she wanted a piece of cake, when she was looking for her glasses. Whenever it happened, she'd say, "just ignore me!" But how do you ignore your crying grandma, the grandma who's always been so capable and strong and busy taking care of everyone else?
I know she was scared. She didn't like feeling weak, and the steroids made her weak. She couldn't eat normally, her stomach hurt, and she had a hard time moving around—and for someone like my grandma who was constantly on the move, that was tough. One visit to the lake she tripped over her own feet while carrying a laundry basket of towels. It scared the shit out of all of us, not only because she tripped, but because she cried after. Soon after she bent down to pick something up and had to ask me to help her stand because she couldn't get back up. That made her cry, too, but she just tried to pretend like the tears weren't there, bustling around like normal, a whirlwind of activity.
We tried to make her slow down, to rest, to stop worrying about all of us, but there was something half-hearted in our attempts. Look how much energy she still had! She was going to be fine.
Then when I walked in the door for the 4th of July weekend at the lake, my breath stopped in my throat—for a moment I thought she was her mother, Grandma T. She looked like a different person, huddled in her bathrobe under a blanket in a chair next to Grandpa, her hair messy, no makeup on, like she'd aged decades in just weeks. She looked old.
My grandma had never looked old, not really. It scared me.
She had pneumonia, the doctors said, so she was resting that week. We were supposed to fend for ourselves as far as food—we always tried to fend for ourselves, but this time was different because she actually let us. No following behind us to clean things up, no special recipe she'd ripped out of a magazine to try, no smorgasbord of food that appeared when we were already full from lunch an hour ago.
The next morning was Chapman Lake's pancake breakfast, so she got up early to go volunteer, despite everyone's assertions that she should just stay home and rest.
"People haven't been volunteering like they should be," she said. "I'm fine." She wasn't fine.
Michael and I were still asleep when Grandpa drove her home from the breakfast. We don't like pancakes enough to give up sleeping in, so we always stay home. I could hear the panic in my grandpa's voice through the thin walls of our bedroom as I became more aware of the morning sun cutting the red floral curtains, my bare legs, the pillow against my cheek, Michael's limbs around me. Without opening my eyes, I think, "Something must be wrong with Grandma," but I'm not awake yet, and it fails to stir up the proper concern in my limbs. Maybe it's because I can hear her voice, too.
"What do you want me to do?" My grandpa says, frustrated.
"Nothing," she sobs.
Michael nudges me, burrowing his cheek against my neck. "I think something's wrong with your grandma."
I hear Grandpa on the phone giving our address to someone, and suddenly I'm fully awake. I come out of the bed in one smooth movement, my heart pounding. Outside the bedroom door Grandpa is standing, pacing. He sees me.
"Your grandma's not feeling well. We're going to the hospital." After he sees me hesitate he says, "You can go in there. It's okay."
I go into their bedroom where she's writhing on the bed, clutching the sheets, moaning and crying. Grandma isn't very touchy-feely—whenever I hug her goodbye, she doesn't linger, just pats me on the back as if it makes her slightly uncomfortable. But in this moment it feels easy and right to curl up next to her, resting my head next to her shoulder and stroking the soft skin on her arm.
"It hurts so much," she whispers.
"Just try to relax," I say. "Take deep breaths." I don't know what I'm saying, words are just coming out.
Grandpa comes in the room with the two paramedics, a man and a woman. The man stands by Grandma's head.
"Hi, Pam. I understand you're in a lot of pain. We're going to try to figure out what's going on."
The male paramedic has Michael help lift the edge of the sheet so they can move Grandma to a gurney. She groans at the movement, grabbing her stomach and crying there on the gurney in the kitchen of the lake house. Grandpa is talking to the paramedic and I stand there, keeping my fingers on Grandma's arm so she knows I'm there. It seems important to me at that moment that she knows she's not alone, but she's in so much pain I'm not sure she knows anything.
"I'm not ready for this," I told Michael later. But still I didn't really think it was the end. My grandma was still relatively young, only 74. And she was so strong. They would figure this out and she'd be back to normal.