Differentials
My grandmother keeps a calendar upstairs in her kitchen.
At first glance there is nothing extraordinary about her calendar hanging quietly, unassuming next to the cordless phone cradle and a set of corner cabinets. Almost hidden, small in stature and dull in design, it remains almost unnoticeable when surveyed with the kitchen as a whole. (Cutko knives polished and burrowing into a wooden block, steal the show.)
Look closer and you’ll notice milestones scrawled throughout the pages in pencil, memories etched into the context of the years. There are typical birthday reminders, holidays, anniversaries, some graduations. There are football and baseball games starring my two local and collegiately clad cousins. There are to-do lists and other miscellaneous information she wants to recount specifically.
Then there are her notes. About him. (They remind her where they’ve been.)
They center on his aneurysm and stroke some eight years ago this upcoming November. Thanksgiving day, to be exact. She doesn’t celebrate it anymore. Not the way she used to. She is thankful, to be sure. They gave him six months. He’s an anomaly. A shattering of statistics. She’s the strongest, most stubborn, most amazing woman I’ve ever known.
She’s tired, too.
She remembers it vividly. Remembers everything. Which almost makes it strange that she has it all written down so precisely, as if she fears one morning she’ll awake and not be able to recall how they arrived at their current destination.
She’s playing nurse, but it’s no act. Unconscious love manifested in daily care looks like her second nature. No hospice, no nursing homes. She would never.
Would never trust him with another living soul the way she trusts herself to see to it that he keeps breathing, keeps eating, is around to keep smiling when we all stop by to visit and kiss him hello and goodbye. (I kiss the top of his head where his skull is slightly sunken in. A testament to the biggest, most damaging stroke.)
She holds his hand and asks him if he remembers how they used to love to dance, but she already knows the answer. He smiles and laughs, and we all watch as his eyes travel back in time some ten years prior, and he’s standing tall and handsome as ever, donning a dress-jacket and cowboy boots, two-stepping her around a dance-floor they’ve never really left.
(Happy birthday, grandma. Thank you for showing me daily what “for better and for worse” truly means.)
This is true love and dedication. I hope we can all be a little like your grandma when we grow old.
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I especially hope I can be. Thanks, San.
Kerri Anne, I am trying to work, and now I look like a blubbering mess.
I love you. Thanks for reminding me to love Grandma.
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2 more days! sis. I can’t! wait.
happy birthday grandma.
you are an amazing and inspiring woman and love rocks!
Well said, as always. Sniff!
Happy birthday to your grandma!
That is magical. Truly.
Happy birthday to your grandma! This brought tears to my eyes!
Oh wow. This is perhaps the most beautiful thing I’ve read in a LONG time. Thank you! Also, my husband would encourage me to applaud whomever purchased those cutko knives. He swears by them, as a former cutko salesman.
thanks for making me cry.
this account reminds me of my own grandmother taking care of my grandfather.
he died 10 years ago on the 15th of this month.
my grandmother too, was very tired of taking care of him by herself.
i wish i could hug and kiss her today as well as everyday. i so miss her.
happy belated birthday to your grandmother.
That was absolutely beautiful.
Poignant.
What an honour, to have such an amazing display of love to learn from.
What a beautiful post Kerrianne. Thanks.
I hope that I can say the same someday…
that was a beautiful post….
Thank! you guys.
What an amazing lady. Such a beautifully written post.
Great post. That is so very cool. I love what “for better or for worse” meant for your grandma. :)
Heartstrings indeed - such a beautiful post.
Happy birthday Kerri’s Grandma!