By
Sherry Churchill
Sally was crying on the
telephone!” exclaimed my bewildered mother “I didn’t know what to
say to her! I think she is exhausted from taking care of mom and
that makes her depressed!”
Those words made me feel a
little bewildered and depressed myself. My mom and I were living in
Florida, 1200 miles away from Aunt Sally and Grandma in Michigan.
The family, most of us spread all over the country, had collectively
agreed that Grandma should not go to a nursing home with strangers.
Mom had tried to have Grandma and Grandpa in her home about 10 years
ago, but it made her a nervous wreck and she only lasted a few
months. Next, her sister Sally agreed to be the caretaker. Aunt
Sally had the right temperament for caregiving. Always a homemaker,
and possessing a calm personality, everyone agreed she might be
successful. She was. But because she was so successful, caring for
them both until Grandpa died 5 years ago, and now Grandma, at
98-years-old, it was easy for the rest of the family to forget that
Aunt Sally had put her well-deserved personal life on hold. We were
all living our lives conveniently ignorant of what it meant to be a
caregiver. Mom traveled to Michigan once a year and took Grandma out
for 3 hours. That was the extent of our side of the family’s
assistance. My four cousins, (one lived 3,000 miles away), were of
some help to her, but all had their own lives and families. Grandma
required total care - diapers, wheelchair, everything. We never
heard one word of complaint from Aunt Sally. Our intermittent and
sparse telephone calls to her were always met with joy. She would
cheerfully put Grandma on the telephone to say hello, and we hung up
feeling good about ourselves, still with no real thought to Aunt
Sally’s sacrifice.
Then came the day she cried on
the telephone. That just didn’t sound like her. So after hanging up
with my mom, I called my Aunt. Soon, I had put it all together. My
cousin’s baby, Aunt Sally’s 9-month-old granddaughter, was to have
emergency open-heart surgery in Los Angeles. Aunt Sally had never
even seen her, and now she could die from the risky operation.
Because of grandma, Aunt Sally couldn’t go to California to be with
them during the 5-hour surgery. Her two sons could only be with
grandma during the nights, and her other daughter, who could
normally come for the days, was pregnant and couldn’t lift. As I
listened, I realized that the only right thing to do was to
volunteer to take care of grandma for a week. Flight arrangements
worked out to play musical houses, and so it was that I visited my
aunt’s home for a week of caregiving. “I worked in a nursing home 20
years ago,” I thought, “I can do this.” Aunt Sally left me pages and
pages of instructions on medicine, bathing, bathroom, dressing,
sleeping and eating. I assured her as she got on the plane for
California that Grandma and I would be just fine. When I looked at
Grandma for the first time in three years, I was startled. My little
4’11” dynamo of a grandmother now looked feeble, and she bent
forward and to the side. I was pleased that she still walked on her
own at 98 years old, but it was a disturbing shuffle, which
sometimes threw her off-balance. She wore diapers. Even though she
could communicate that she had to use the toilet, she often didn’t
make it in time.
Her frail hands shook when she
held her daily cup of coffee, sometimes spilling it down the front
of her or on the table. Talking consisted of one or two words, not
always the appropriate word for what she wanted or needed. Most of
the time her mouth drooped and she drooled constantly. I immediately
got the idea this might not be as easy as I’d figured. Little did I
know that Grandma paces non-stop every night from 4 pm until 10 pm.
That first night, I followed her back and forth, back and forth, up
and down, up and down, from the moment I arrived until 10 pm, when I
finally put her into to bed and she stayed. After unpacking, I
crawled, exhausted, into bed. I suppose the baby monitor in my room
helped wake me at 1:00 am from the “thump”. I jumped up and ran into
grandma’s bedroom to find her clawing the wall, seemingly
disoriented, and shivering. I put her back into bed and covered her,
knowing that she might get up again and again. I slept very little
after that and finally got up at 4:30 am to make coffee and read.
Every bone and joint in my arms ached from the constant lifting the
night before. It felt like arthritis, whatever that feels like.
By 6:30 am, grandma was up. My
written instructions said I was to feed her, get her coffee with
Karo syrup in it and sugar. I combed her hair and struggled with her
robe and slippers. Being a childless woman, I wasn’t very good at
dressing others. After the messy breakfast, we made a bathroom trip.
Her diaper needed changing, as I hadn’t thought to take her the
night before and she hadn’t indicated anything to make me think of
it. I almost reeled from the odor of it, and had trouble prying
apart her legs to make the change. I kept apologizing to her for the
embarrassment of it, and my clumsiness, while she merely laughed.
This was my very own Grandma and it wasn’t proper for me to see her
undressed - that part was hard for me to handle. Soon, however, I
didn’t even notice and my clumsiness improved. I didn’t forget the
bathroom anymore and we only had one other accident that week.
Aunt Sally mentioned that
Grandma was long overdue for a bowel movement, and so I was to give
her Citrucel. Well, Grandma didn’t like Citrucel and anything I put
it in was cruelly rejected. Nevertheless, Grandma had a bowel
movement on Tuesday - I was very happy and noticed that, for a
caregiver, a bowel movement can be the highlight of the day! I
developed a new appreciation for my Aunt Sally. Especially when I
was faced with cleaning up Grandma after the big event. It was
mentally and physically exhausting to just get through each day with
grandma and her pacing. She took a couple spills, a bad one where I
was fortunate to catch her in time, and another minor fall onto her
bottom. Lifting her back up was another story. As each day wore on,
my arms and wrists hurt more and more. I was popping Tylenol for the
pain to my newfound muscles! Up and down, up and down, Grandma’s
exercise was walking from room to room and sitting down and getting
back up. That is, until my cousin and I took Grandma to the Mall. I
was thrilled to be getting out, but didn’t realize that wheelchairs
don’t always fit in between the racks of clothing. I could never
step away long to look at something for fear Grandma would attempt
to climb out of the wheelchair. My cousin had her own hands full
with two toddlers and, of course, her unborn child who was, at this
time, hyperactive in the womb. We made quite a picture: A pregnant
blond lady with two wild Indians, and a harried, clumsy middle-aged
brunette with grandma in a wheelchair. Lunch was strange. Aunt Sally
said Grandma eats hamburgers, so I bought her one. Grandma ate the
whole thing, much to my surprise. However, about four, that’s four
hours later grandma announced, “Have to spit”. I put a paper towel
under her mouth and she politely spit up what looked like the whole
burger. This was not “processed” hamburger, mind you, this appeared
to be an un-swallowed version. I couldn’t fathom anyone but a
chipmunk storing an entire hamburger in their cheeks for four hours.
Grandma was ruling my life. She
set the pace, the timing and the rules. My once-per-day calls to my
office back home were always dotted with, “No, grandma, sit here
grandma, what do you need, grandma?”. I had no personal time
whatsoever. I had to try to time my showers precisely 15 minutes
after her 10 am nap began - sometimes it worked, sometimes it
didn’t. There were moments I wanted to run screaming from the house.
I could never complete a one hour newscast or a talk show, or a
telephone call. I couldn’t be careless to leave a door open or
something sitting out on a table. I only dared to run to the corner
store while grandma slept, fearing she would wake and fall. Thoughts
of my aunt suffering this for the last 10 years were sobering,
indeed, a shame unto us all. By the end of the week, Grandma was on
her worst behavior. She discovered what room I disappeared into (you
know, to sleep, dress, etc.) and she began entering that room every
time I was in there (it didn’t have a lock). I first put up chairs
as a barricade - she moved the chairs. Then I had to put a 19” TV in
front of it to keep her from coming in. Later, she decided she was
going in there anyway, whether I was in there or not, even with the
door shut. I could tell when she was deciding to go in there when
she was standing in the kitchen - she eyed the door from across the
room, about 25 feet away. I would say, “No, grandma” and she would
take off 90 miles an hour for that door. So fast, I couldn’t catch
her until she was already in the room. This was no feeble
98-year-old lady! She was greased lightning when she wanted to be!
Well, anyway, to make matters worse, the last time I stopped her
from getting into the room, she turned around and her false teeth
were hanging out - she looked like a walking skeleton! I said,
“Eeek! Grandma, put your teeth back in!” She just walked around,
with those things hanging out.
Aunt Sally had left no
instructions about the teeth! After thirty minutes or so, Grandma
came walking in with her teeth in her hand, trying to hand them to
me, and I said, “Grandma, you’re gonna have to do it yourself
because I don’t know anything about teeth!” So she finally put them
back in herself. I am finishing this a few years later. Grandma has
since passed away and I realize now that the week with Grandma was
just about the most special time we ever had together. It took her
about two days to recognize me. I kept saying, “Grandma, it’s me,
Sherry. I love you, Grandma”. The moment she realized who I was, it
was clear. I saw the recognition on her face, as she headed toward
me. She patted and stroked my arm over and over and mumbled, “I love
you. I love you”. Our mutual “I love you’s” lasted all week long. I
recall trimming her hair just before the trip to the mall. I got out
my curling iron and tried, to no avail, to curl her hair. It was
straight as a stick. I told her I couldn’t get her hair to curl and
she laughed with delight, sort of a devilish little chuckle. Now
that I think about it, she always used to say how uncooperative her
hair always was. Grandma, I miss you so much. You were always such a
big part of my childhood. I am so very thankful for that week with
you. But I have an incredible, new respect for full-time caregivers.
Thank you, Aunt Sally. I’m sure there is a special place in Heaven
for you and others like you.
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