Crazy Grandma

CRAZY GRANDMA

I learned when I was young that when I was old I would be weird. Weird like Grandma…

She had hair that “came down to her fanny” as she said. This was something I longed for, but never understood why she twisted it around and around, then pinned it into a bun. She left black, u-shaped hairpins in a cup by the sink in the bathroom she shared with my younger brother and me. But she left her dentures in a glass by the sink in the kitchen. I hated the look of them, the gray pink of the gums holding spooky rows of false teeth. I had to put a paper towel over the glass when I got a snack. And, unfortunately on all counts, that was frequent since she only seemed to put her teeth in when she left the house to attend Mass.

Grandma (my father’s mom) could be mean, and when she wasn’t mean, she was dismissive. I remember proudly playing a new piece on the piano when I was around 10. I stumbled through it, never-the-less quite proud of myself. (I may have actually added a “ta da!”) To which she said, “I could hear every mistake…” But her embroidery was magic, I remember going to the state fair and seeing blue ribbons hung next to the beautiful framed horse that would soon hang on my bedroom wall. My pillowcases had bunnies or foxes hopping across the top of them. Jacks and Jills decorated my sheets.

By the time she died I was long out of the house, about 21 and living with a boyfriend. I had seen her in the hospital, heard my mother and my uncle battling it out about when to “pull the plug.” My dad was, as usual, checked out in the corner chair, successfully avoiding his familial responsibility. My mother bragging that she had bought her mother-in-law beautiful pajamas every Christmas (she barely did anything else).

I was told after she died a secret that had been kept from my brother and me for many years. My grandmother had suffered from schizophrenia. I was shocked as the story unfolded, albeit it brief and full of gaps: when my father and my uncle were young she was found sitting naked in the middle of a busy street; my parents invested in her medical care instead of buying a bigger home; they moved her from the studio apartment where she had lived for many years to an apartment house that provided minimum care when needed. I remember visiting her there when I was a kid and seeing a cardboard owl with a ribbon attached on the table. I learned that a staff member would walk down the halls each morning checking that every door had an owl like this hanging on the knob. If one was missing, the family was called. Apparently, this was the case with my grandmother more than a few times. 

As it was explained to me, my parents would then drive the 30 minutes to her home, and upon opening the door, would find her crouched naked and terrified in a corner. (It breaks my heart now to think of her that way. I can’t decide if I wish I had known then, or happy that I did not…)

My parents would call an ambulance and she was taken away to the psychiatric hospital where she was given “shock treatment” as it was called then. She would stay for a short time after and then be brought home to my house to recover. I was unaware of any of this, of course. Unaware of her underlying condition, of the treatment and of her mental and emotional state afterward. 

But I DO know that when Grandma came to our house for a few days or a week… my parents would sometimes take advantage of having a babysitter and go away for a long weekend.

Leaving a woman who needed to be taken care of – to take care of the two of us.

I remember fondly: Weird Grandma serving hot dogs over and over for dinner and all the ice cream we could eat for dessert. 

I remember not so fondly: Weird Grandma leaving bowls of urine by the front door -- to “keep THEM out.”

Keep WHO out??? 

At 10 and 11, we found this a lot scary and a little funny. But at 13 and 14 we found it a little scary and a lot funny. I remember hearing her yelling at us to “stay inside, they’ll get you if you go outside…” and us laughing while strategizing our exit. Sneaking out when she wasn’t looking. 

It was not until I was 29, that I learned a particularly disturbing detail. Delivered in an inappropriate way…in an inappropriate place…to an inappropriate audience. In this case, laughing loudly…in a restaurant… to my now husband. But that was the way my mother did things. 

Then living together, Tim and I were visiting my parents from our home across the country. I had expected an awkward dinner out, having rarely had anything else where my family was concerned, but still was not prepared. My mother was three margaritas in and decided to entertain Tim in her typical fashion. With loud and what she thought were impressive stories – the kind where she was always the star. 

Practiced at looking like I was listening, I chuckled at what I hoped were the appropriate places, “wow-ed” regularly, since I didn’t have to listen to know this was appropriate. I needn’t have bothered. My mother was showing off, and had picked a target. Tim had met my parents before, and he had his “boy, this is interesting” face on. 

But my attention was grabbed when I heard her loudly say “Boy, was Catherine crazy!” It took a moment to associate Catherine with Grandma, but when I did, I knew what was coming… sad tales about her mental illness delivered laughingly. I saw my dad sink down into his Double Beefeaters on the rocks at the mention of his mother. I hesitated before I said “mom, please, this isn’t the place to tell those stories.” “Lynden, you’re being VERY rude!!!” she sneered with a look that was meant to make me feel ashamed. It almost always worked. But my shame was interrupted by what happened next. I saw her make a gun with her hand, point it randomly at our side of the table and cackle “Catherine said that she was going to kill all of us…” 

Aghast (at this new information about my grandmother), angry (that my Mom she was so insensitive) and embarrassed (at pretty much everything about the situation). I had to get out, get away. I remember sliding out of the red booth, walking quickly, almost running, through the small crowded restaurant with tears in my eyes. I could breathe again once I got outside in the night air. I hadn’t noticed that Tim was there beside me.

I can only guess that I was waiting for her to run out after me and apologize. And I did wait. And soon my mom and my dad did come out the door. I looked at them, desperately wanting to make eye contact. Not anymore waiting for an apology but waiting for a goodbye hug. I didn’t dare hope for an “I love you.” But I was disappointed, foolishly disappointed as they walked to their car and drove away without acknowledging me. And we left too, back to Washington without even a perfunctory wave from either one of them…