My grandma speaks the way a stone skips across the water. Only she isn't the stone going straight, straight, straight... she is the ripples, symmetrical, crashing; surface disturbed. I think I have learned the new language - the one after stroke. Words mean other things. "I took the paper," is "I read the newspaper," 'he' and 'she' are usually mixed one for the other. Everything is spoken with the same importance, and I find it wearying to listen for hours. Her breakfast menu spoken as if it were her last wishes, her daily walk, a treasured secret she shares with me. I keep meaning to record a conversation or two; her and I in electronic memory. Why I find it so wearying I don't know. Sometimes she feels like she has been given a second chance, sometimes she feels like she was robbed of a graceful death, but she rambles and I am a tired mama.
Today I found myself at a geriatric assessment clinic, surrounded by grandmas, each delighted to hold my 4 month old. "We certainly don't get many babies in here," said one nurse, who held Theron long enough for me to skim a magazine article. Me wishing for rest, wanting to hide behind baby, wanting to prove that I am keeping my head above water, keeping tears back while I drive, keeping tears back while I read. And grandma says to me, "I remember when I took my stroke. I was at Zellers and I thought, 'Oh, oh, oh,' and I thought I was going to die. Maybe not die today, but I thought the next day I would be in the hospital and I would die." "You remember that?!" I asked, so surprised. "Yes, and I was ready. I wasn't scared at all." Articulate. Clear eyed. Strong. And I didn't want to cry. I was proud for her.
I feel like I am the one missing out. My time should be a treasured secret too.
That's her on the left holding Theron in November. I'm sure I could find a better picture, one that isn't a picture of a picture on a scrapbook page, but I'm too tired to navigate my computer's files right now.
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