April 23
The first time I visited the nursing home I was either 3 or 4. It was the middle of July; I wore a short-sleeved cut off shirt and shorts that went up past my knees. But because of my young age, it was acceptable. My father held my hand- he was a lot younger then. Is it strange I don't see him better? Maybe it was because of my height, but what I remember most are his calves and his shoes. Converses, I think, nearly always.
We went to see my grandfather, my father's father, who was in the process of dying. There's nothing really that dramatic about it- if you think about it, we are all inevitably dying. Some of us are just going much faster than the rest, and he was at a breakneck speed. I do not remember correctly what was wrong with him. I'm sure I could ask either parent now, but I don't really want to. Something to do with longtime cigarette smoking, I think, and a poor heart. Also, his kidneys were going on him; he was kept alive by machinery. You only need one to work but both his were goners.
The entrance of the nursing home stands like it does now- sort of a stony, intimidating 1800s entrance way. Nearly all my relatives have been here at one time or another: some to stay, some to just visit. Most to just visit, to be honest. My other grandfather died in 2006 by accident; he did not have time for a nursing home.
I don't recall what the interior looked like; I can only envision it as it is now. The mirrors, the wallpaper, the cushiony chairs as if inviting you to stay longer than you'd like to. What I see from my child's mind is a yellowish blur.
"Ready, Brittany?" my father pressed the elevator to open. I nodded. It was a big deal for me to be visiting: I remember that was my first time. I wore a Bugs Bunny shirt- I caught sight of it in one of the many mirrors and briefly was happy about something.
Standing at the foot of my father was like standing at the foot of a tall and ominous tree. Some things never changed- I was always a little afraid of my father to stand too close.
The doors opened and in we went, me scuttling to the back where I felt safe. Walls were (and are) a comfort. I find myself naturally drawn to them, as if it is an impulse coming from my stomach as safe as hunger.
I still scuttle to the back when I visit, but I'm not as short as I was then.
We walked to his bedroom. Not sure where it was, what floor it was on.
I'd been there before to visit my grandmother, when she worked there. It was after my brother and I got into one of our no-holds-barred fights.
"Did you hit your brother with your toy iron?" one the nuns asked me.
"Yes." I said. She shook her head and clucked her tongue at me.
HE DESERVED IT. My thoughts go unsaid. Something about the looks on my mother and grandmother's faces tells me to "shut, up."
I stand in the doorway and do not go in. My father lets go of my hand and inside he vanishes, only to emerge a second or so later.
"He's not there," he says, clueless. That's when I go in.
The bed is big, white and empty. There are the remnants of someone having been there- obviously, it's my grandfather's home for the time being, and for the rest of his life. He never went back to his house on the other side of town. It was such a nice house- on a few acres, with a large pond, and a heater I had shoved Lego pirate coins down. "Brittany!"
The bed is empty. The sheets are clean and made. I stare at it, in awe of it. I have this weird sensation about the bed. Later, I can pinpoint this as a sort of nostalgic sadness. A wistfulness beyond words for a toddler.
We leave shortly after. I don't recall seeing my grandfather again. He died in August of 1992, so this would have been a month before said death. The cemetery we buried him it was overpacked, tombstones everywhere. I hate walking in it to this day because I fear I'm going to trip over the small unobtrusive grave of a priest or a child.
When we visit his grave for the first time, my brother stays in the car with me. A trailer for Stephen King's Tommyknockers comes onto the radio.
"THEY'RE COMING FOR YOU," my brother takes the opportunity to shout. I jump up against the glass and scream and bang my fists on the car door until my parents come back, cutting short the visit to the paternal resting places. The grandmother who died right after I was born and the grandfather who went a few years later.
Now it's nearly two decades and I sit in the corner of a similar room, doing my crossword. I find there's a formula for the crossword I do everyday if I remember. "Comedian Fey." TINA.
My grandmother watches me from the chair my mother has helped her in. She looks bitter and her complexion's gone grey. It's very sad to get old if you can't do it right. There are those rare souls among us that manage to transition seamlessly into old age with a sort of Biblical reverence. They can keep their minds and their bodies and just go out like, a snap of the fingers. They don't go out long and slow. My grandmother is not one of these people. To see her everyday is to fear the consequences of life even more.
"What did you do today, Mom?" My own mother sits next to her own mother.
"I want to go home."
This is not the first time there is no going home.
We went to see my grandfather, my father's father, who was in the process of dying. There's nothing really that dramatic about it- if you think about it, we are all inevitably dying. Some of us are just going much faster than the rest, and he was at a breakneck speed. I do not remember correctly what was wrong with him. I'm sure I could ask either parent now, but I don't really want to. Something to do with longtime cigarette smoking, I think, and a poor heart. Also, his kidneys were going on him; he was kept alive by machinery. You only need one to work but both his were goners.
The entrance of the nursing home stands like it does now- sort of a stony, intimidating 1800s entrance way. Nearly all my relatives have been here at one time or another: some to stay, some to just visit. Most to just visit, to be honest. My other grandfather died in 2006 by accident; he did not have time for a nursing home.
I don't recall what the interior looked like; I can only envision it as it is now. The mirrors, the wallpaper, the cushiony chairs as if inviting you to stay longer than you'd like to. What I see from my child's mind is a yellowish blur.
"Ready, Brittany?" my father pressed the elevator to open. I nodded. It was a big deal for me to be visiting: I remember that was my first time. I wore a Bugs Bunny shirt- I caught sight of it in one of the many mirrors and briefly was happy about something.
Standing at the foot of my father was like standing at the foot of a tall and ominous tree. Some things never changed- I was always a little afraid of my father to stand too close.
The doors opened and in we went, me scuttling to the back where I felt safe. Walls were (and are) a comfort. I find myself naturally drawn to them, as if it is an impulse coming from my stomach as safe as hunger.
I still scuttle to the back when I visit, but I'm not as short as I was then.
We walked to his bedroom. Not sure where it was, what floor it was on.
I'd been there before to visit my grandmother, when she worked there. It was after my brother and I got into one of our no-holds-barred fights.
"Did you hit your brother with your toy iron?" one the nuns asked me.
"Yes." I said. She shook her head and clucked her tongue at me.
HE DESERVED IT. My thoughts go unsaid. Something about the looks on my mother and grandmother's faces tells me to "shut, up."
I stand in the doorway and do not go in. My father lets go of my hand and inside he vanishes, only to emerge a second or so later.
"He's not there," he says, clueless. That's when I go in.
The bed is big, white and empty. There are the remnants of someone having been there- obviously, it's my grandfather's home for the time being, and for the rest of his life. He never went back to his house on the other side of town. It was such a nice house- on a few acres, with a large pond, and a heater I had shoved Lego pirate coins down. "Brittany!"
The bed is empty. The sheets are clean and made. I stare at it, in awe of it. I have this weird sensation about the bed. Later, I can pinpoint this as a sort of nostalgic sadness. A wistfulness beyond words for a toddler.
We leave shortly after. I don't recall seeing my grandfather again. He died in August of 1992, so this would have been a month before said death. The cemetery we buried him it was overpacked, tombstones everywhere. I hate walking in it to this day because I fear I'm going to trip over the small unobtrusive grave of a priest or a child.
When we visit his grave for the first time, my brother stays in the car with me. A trailer for Stephen King's Tommyknockers comes onto the radio.
"THEY'RE COMING FOR YOU," my brother takes the opportunity to shout. I jump up against the glass and scream and bang my fists on the car door until my parents come back, cutting short the visit to the paternal resting places. The grandmother who died right after I was born and the grandfather who went a few years later.
Now it's nearly two decades and I sit in the corner of a similar room, doing my crossword. I find there's a formula for the crossword I do everyday if I remember. "Comedian Fey." TINA.
My grandmother watches me from the chair my mother has helped her in. She looks bitter and her complexion's gone grey. It's very sad to get old if you can't do it right. There are those rare souls among us that manage to transition seamlessly into old age with a sort of Biblical reverence. They can keep their minds and their bodies and just go out like, a snap of the fingers. They don't go out long and slow. My grandmother is not one of these people. To see her everyday is to fear the consequences of life even more.
"What did you do today, Mom?" My own mother sits next to her own mother.
"I want to go home."
This is not the first time there is no going home.
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