A Gift from Gramma

My gramma’s hair is no longer blonde and thick with curls. Instead, it is soft, thin and so gray, it is almost colorless. Her skin has lost all elasticity and is fragile like tissue paper and that tears easily. The flesh around her face has sunken and makes her clouded eyes appear larger than normal. Her nails are natural, long, and filed perfectly, by my mom, her daughter-in-law. My gramma looks shrunken and small in the large hospital bed, her eyes are closed, her breath is raspy, and her mind goes wandering.

           “Mrs. Charles?” said her physician. He was standing at the end of the bed, holding her chart. I was standing on her right side with my mom on her left.

           “Mrs. Charles?” he repeated louder.

           “Gramma. Wake up. The doctor is here,” I said and shook her boney shoulder as gently as I could, trying to ignore the overpowering smell of her unwashed body permeated with antiseptic.

           Memories of Gramma had been circling like sharks in my mind ever since she took a turn for the worse. Good memories, along with some bad, a few I never wanted to remember, and a rare humorous one. My gramma was not a hugging, sweet smile, smelling of chocolate chip cookies kind of grandmother. She spoke her mind, manipulated those around her, loved her family fiercely, was generous, critical of others, racist, a hypocrite, and I loved her. I spent most of my childhood years visiting her and grandpa, every summer for two weeks, and our attendance was mandatory at the three major holidays.

           “Do not walk across my kitchen floor dripping wet from the pool young lady,” Gramma hollered at me.

           This made no sense to me since I was just going to go back in the pool after I visited the bathroom, but I did what I was told and dried off mostly so she wouldn’t say anything else to me. She did let me eat frosted Pop Tarts which mom said were bad for me, she let me stay up late watching television, and made me kiss her cheek hello. If Gramma and I went shopping together for my birthday present, I wasn’t allowed to receive the gift until it was my birthday, even if it was two days away. Gramma and her rules.

           Gramma’s eyes opened but did not focus on any of us, I bent close to her face to give her something to see.

           “Mrs. Charles. How are you feeling today?” the doctor rushed into his questions now that he had her attention.

           “Not so good,” she replied.

           “Do you know where you are?”

           “The hospital,” she answered.

           I felt impressed that her answers were correct because some days she spoke only in cuss words, angry yelling, and followed by sobbing. This was such a change in her speech patterns which usually were finding fault in others, saying whatever popped in her mind, and being oblivious to anyone’s feelings.

           “Can you tell me what day it is?” the doctor prodded.

           She began to cry a little, her chin wavering, “It is my granddaughter’s birthday.”

           Gramma’s hand slapped my thigh, “Those jeans sure are tight little missy. How did you get them on?” she questioned me, staring straight in my eyes. “Watch your figure or it will get away from you.”

           I rolled my eyes but gave her a small smile. Way to go Gramma, just what an insecure teenage girl, like me, needs; doubt about my weight which equates to how pretty I feel and how I think the world perceives me. Of course, my gramma is not thin, just judgmental and opinionated. From her black and white photos, she was thin and beautiful in her youth and my grandpa was handsome like a movie star from the golden age of Hollywood.

           “I am in a play at school Gramma. One of my best friends, Tito also got a role,” I told her. I was excited about my news because she always supported my idea to be an actress.

           “Tito? That name sounds Black,” she responded.

           “Well that is because he is Black,” I said, confused by her response.

           “I guess it is fine to be friends, but do not ever date him,” she said.

           Conversations with Gramma never went the way you imagined they would, but I would still try and hope she could find a way to be nice, or loving, and build you up, instead of being mean, rude, and making you regret talking to her at all. Her words cut like razor blades, thin, quick slices in my spirit that stung, bled and scarred over time.

           Grandpa was a saint, for loving her, accepting her, and putting up with her nonsense for years. When she decided not to leave her bed again, he took care of her, and when he could no longer do that, he moved to be near us, so my mom and dad could help. My heart broke every time she was confused and she would swear and scream obscenities at him till his eyes were wet and his face heartbroken.

           “What did I do to make her so mad?” he would ask.

           “Nothing Grandpa. She does not know what she is saying,” I said, my arm around his bony shoulders, trying to give him comfort.

           “I still love her,” he said looking at me, needing validation.

           “She knows. I am sure, somehow she knows.”

           The doctor turned towards me, eyebrows raised, requiring confirmation of Gramma’s answer.

           I took her pale, gnarled, arthritic hand in mine, smiled at her, and said, “She’s right, today is my birthday. I am twenty-five years old.”

           Gramma came to my high school graduation, but not my wedding and since she refused to attend my wedding, Grandpa could not attend either. She was upset because I was getting married at age nineteen which in her opinion was too young. She was correct but she still should have come. Afterward, when looking at my wedding pictures she said to my dad, her son, “Too bad you ruined all the pictures because you are fat.”

           That was the last straw for me. The last cut by a scalpel. No more, I decided. No more pretending like she was a wonderful person, faking happiness at everything she does, overacting my appreciation for gifts, and no more visiting her. Family members can be toxic, and damaging and even though I love her, she did not need to be an instrumental part of my life based solely on the fact that she is my gramma.

           I know that the guilt I feel over little things is because of her, like when I made a cake for my husband’s birthday and it fell apart, and I sobbed. I cried because it was not perfect and if she knew, she would be disappointed in me. This unhealthy tendency of mine to feel guilty has overflowed into all sections of my life. It has flowed into my efforts in school, how I communicate in relationships, in my job performance, and even interactions with strangers. My actions are dictated by the thought of her watching me, so I put the grocery cart away every time. I smile at others, hold the door, and graciously try to please all I come in contact with, to keep the guilt at bay.

                      Two days later, the phone rang at two in the morning and I knew Gramma had passed. No tears came, just an empty, hollow feeling in my chest. She could have made her family smile instead of causing resentment and hurt feelings. What happened in her childhood that formed her into a manipulating, hurtful, bitter woman?

What will people remember about her? Will they remember how she could set and decorate a table so beautiful it made your heart swell, or how she talked about her family in glowing praise, only when they were out of earshot? Or how for special events, she wore rings on every finger, smelling of White Diamonds perfume, and hugging and kissing all those she loved? I fear those who knew her best will only think about how cruel she could be with her words, her actions, and her facial expressions.

After hanging up the phone, I pictured her soul making its journey to heaven and I whispered, “I love you. I forgive you.”

Her final lucid communication was knowing it was my birthday and to me, it signified how much she loved me. “Thank you, Gramma. Thank you for illustrating how I do not want to be with my own family, always seeking the bad and never the good. I want to enjoy life instead of looking at it with a sour face. And most importantly, I want to speak with kindness, to my family, my friends, coworkers, neighbors, and anyone who crosses my path. This is the most meaningful gift you ever could have given me.”