We have a dry-erase calendar in our kitchen that gets updated monthly for appointments, occasions, and birthdays. I always get excited for March because it is filled with birthdays, including my own. This year, as I sat down to fill out our March calendar, I was overcome with sadness because this is the first year I haven't put my grandma's birthday on the calendar. She passed away this past October, and yesterday would have been her 88th birthday.
Even though it has been five months (to the day) since she has been gone, it seems surreal. She suffered from Alzheimer's disease for over 6 years, so in part it feels like she has been gone longer. But the disease is so strange, because there was never a specific day that all of a sudden, she wasn't our typical grandmother anymore. It feels like I should still be able to go to her house and sit at the table while she makes me macaroni & cheese or hot chocolate.
I think about her nearly every day and am amazed the strength she had. I know that she would be so proud of my sister and I with what we have accomplished in our lives and would absolutely adore our husbands if she would have had a chance to really meet them.
A few years ago (the Spring of 2009 I believe) I took a creative writing course and ended up writing a creative nonfiction piece about my grandparents. The idea sprang from a picture I have of my grandparents at my high school graduation party. As I began writing, I found that I wanted to keep going. I called my grandpa and mom for information and worked on this piece for a few weeks. I had considered reading it at Grandma's funeral, but knew I wouldn't be able to compose myself long enough to read it. If you're interested, I've posted it below (keep in mind, it's pretty long).
That Old-Fashioned, Never-Ending Country Love
After living for 63 years, I think
most people would have had their great share of ups and downs. They would have fallen in love, had their
hearts broken, made and lost many friends, and acquired all sorts of
knowledge. But, can you imagine loving
and being married to that one person, your Cinderella or knight in shining
armor, for 63 years of your life and counting?
In my high school photo album lies a picture of an
older couple. The woman, dressed in
lilac-colored pants and a faded blue button-up shirt, a red and white striped
t-shirt underneath, is sitting on the old man’s knee. She is wearing a slight, crooked smile and a
colorful lei around her neck. The old
man is wearing a pair of jeans that you can tell have been worn quite a bit
throughout the years and a sky blue button-up shirt with a pocket on the left
side. In his right hand is a cane with
several colors and engravings, and the woman’s right hand rests upon his. The old man has a big smile that raises his
wrinkly skin and cheeks up to the bottoms of his glasses and makes his eyes squint.
Every time I see this picture, I
think back to that day—my graduation party.
It was a pleasant and warm late spring day, May 2007. We were at Bertha’s campground, down by the
river, in a gazebo decked out with “Congrats Grad” decorations. The outermost picnic tables were filled with
hot dogs and hamburgers, potato salads, fruits and vegetable trays, cake,
macaroni and cheese, baked beans, and every other food imaginable. Slowly, my friends and family began
arriving. My grandparents were out of
their house and at the party. Days like
these were rare because Grandma didn’t like to leave the house; it was enough
of a challenge just to get her up and dressed.
She looked very content that day.
My grandparents made a place for themselves at one of the picnic tables,
and Mom and I got them their food.
Grandpa socialized with all of his friends and our family while Grandma
sat beside him holding his hand, appearing to be talking it all in, that barely
visible, crooked smile never leaving her face.
Jim and Bonnie were one of those
really cute couples, who when you saw them together, you instantly knew that
they were meant for each other. Jim was
born and named Charles Albert Eye on August 8, 1921 in a house of eight other
kids; he was youngest. Bonnie, on the other hand, was born into the
Halterman family on March 19, 1925 into a family of six other kids with one
still to come. Both of them were born
and grew up deep in the country of Pendleton County, West Virginia. Neither of them graduated from high school,
but that didn’t limit them in their lives.
Grandpa joined the Army and was
deported to Cuba in 1942 during World War II as a Military Policeman. He always recalls these days and talks about
his friends. He came back to the United
States in 1944 and began his duty marching at the Tomb of the Unknown
Soldier.
“I always wished I woulda gotten a picture there.
One day a little boy and his momma came up, and of course I couldn’ta looked at
‘em. She wanted to take a picture of her boy and me, and so I stopped marching
for a second or two. They took the
picture and left. I keep thinkin’ I wished I woulda gotten her address.”
Grandpa never did get his picture. After being stationed in Cuba, Missouri,
Virginia, and numerous other places, Grandpa returned home.
Grandpa “courted” my grandmother for four months
after his return to Pendleton County.
Neither of them had much money. They decided that four months was long
enough to wait to get married, so Grandpa proposed. Grandma’s hazel eyes lit up when he asked her,
and her blushing cheeks clashed with her curly red hair. Five months later, on November 23, 1946, they were
married.
People in that area in those days
didn’t have much money to go on, so their marriage was a simple affair. They wed at the parsonage of Reverend Colman
with their long-time friends, Bill and Bonnie Wimer, as their witnesses (a
month later, on December 23, Jim and Bonnie were the witnesses for Bill and
Bonnie’s marriage). The clothing was
simple. Jim wore an old suit that wasn’t
the slightest bit fancy, and Bonnie had a nice Sunday church dress. Her short red hair was curled up tight on her
head, and she stood without a veil or flowers.
Although they didn’t go on a honeymoon, they traveled into town
together, and Jim bought his new bride an old-fashioned country dinner of
steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, and corn.
Jim and Bonnie had three children
throughout the 40s and 50s, Deanna (Punkie), David, and Debbie (my mom). The family moved around a lot, because the
jobs that Jim could do were scarce, however they always found themselves coming
back to their home, Pendleton County.
The lush, green countryside against the rugged Appalachian Mountains,
and the Mayberry-styled town of Franklin was just something that they couldn’t
find anywhere else.
Franklin was small, and that’s an
understatement. Everyone in the
community had their part that they had fill to keep everything going. Jim, who worked as a mason, put in the
sidewalks along the street and laid brick to help build some of the buildings
and homes that are still standing. If
you walk around the town today, you can still see where he carved his name and
date into the concrete. The best places
to look are on the sidewalk across from Subway, the courthouse steps, the Faith
Lutheran Church walkway, and the sidewalk around the Hanover Shoe building.
Grandma and Grandpa’s final home was
a farmhouse that had been built in 1925 from the lumber of an old church that
had been torn down. The white, two-story
house sat on about 26 acres of farmland and forest across the road from the
hollow of Grandma’s home place. Grandpa
said the house needed some “fixin’ up,” so they tore down a wall in what is now
the living room that made up two separate bedrooms and laid down beautiful
hardwood floors in the living room, stove room, all three bedrooms and
hallway. Because the house was so old,
the chimney had openings for fireplaces in all of the rooms so everyone could
stay warm in the winter. Jim built
sidewalks and porches, a wash house, a garage, a meat house, two storage buildings,
a workshop, a pig pen, chicken house, and barn.
They lived mostly by their own
means, as did all of the country folk.
Their water came from a well that Grandpa dug up. Their meat, milk, eggs, and vegetables and
fruit all came from the animals that they birthed, raised, and butchered and
the gardens that they planted. On top of
holding full time jobs, Grandpa and Grandma were expected to continuously
care for their farm so they could survive.
Life was hard work and left little time for rest and relaxation.
In the early 80s when Punkie and her family were
living in San Diego, Grandpa and Grandma decided to fly to California to visit
them. Upon getting there, Grandpa
decided that he wanted to visit Mexico, because he wanted to see if it resembled
Havana, Cuba where he had been stationed for two years. Their day spent in Tijuana was exciting and
filled with lively music, great spicy Mexican food, and shopping the little
stores along the streets. Grandpa, who
was now in his 60s, was beginning to feel the effects of aging. In one shop he saw a cane maker. The canes that the old Mexican man made were
quite colorful and had different engravings carved throughout the whole length
of the cane. The different engravings
were separated by two rings of black.
Grandpa described them as ‘totem pole’ canes. The cane contained engravings of a face,
arms, legs, feet, an inscription which I’m incapable of making out now, and his
nickname, Jim. This cane was his favorite
souvenir from the whole trip.
By the late 90s, Grandma and Grandpa had six
grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.
They were retiring from their jobs and focusing more on family. One cool spring morning, Grandma was in her
bedroom getting dressed when she found a very sore lump under her arm. She figured she must have just hit it on
something somehow, but noticed that it didn’t go away. Several weeks and trips to the doctor later,
Grandma found out that she had a type of cancer that originates in the Lymph
nodes called Lymphoma. The news hit her
hard, but not as hard as Grandpa. She
was his lifeline, his support. They
began to show more affection toward each other than ever before. They had always looked at each other in the
eyes like there was no one else in the room, a smile appearing on each of their
faces. Now they were constantly holding
hands and Grandpa was always asking for a “smooch.” She underwent chemotherapy and a new
experimental drug to get rid of the cancer.
When she lost her hair, she was embarrassed to be seen in public. Grandpa always tried to reassure her by
saying, “Moms, you’re beautiful; you’ve always been beautiful. Nobody’s gonna
look at you any differently because you’re the same person you’ve always
been. You’re my purty little thang. Now come sit down on my knee and give me some
love.” She began wearing baseball caps
and other hats until she finally got her wigs.
Her treatment continued until finally, in 2000, she went into remission.
Around 2004, Bonnie’s memory began slipping. Because such things are common with old age,
it didn’t seem to be a big deal, but gradually it became worse. Not only was she getting names confused, she
wouldn’t be able to remember where she put things. She would truly believe that she had eaten
lunch or supper, but couldn’t remember what she ate or when. She said she never slept, but would sleep all
the time. Misplaced items around the
house would mean that someone was coming into her home and taking them. Grandpa was forced to hunt for days for
important papers that had been misplaced.
He stayed very patient with her and tried to explain that no one was
coming into the house and taking stuff, but she couldn’t comprehend. He’d spend hours trying to get her to take
her medicine, but she thought that she had already taken it.
When we noticed her memory was significantly
slipping, we took her to the doctor. It
was in the back of our minds, but no one hoped to hear the words that were
inevitable. Alzheimer’s, dementia, and
cancer are three of the scariest words I know, but cancer is one thing. People
who have cancer sometimes have the ability to survive. Alzheimer’s and dementia
are completely different. Those with
Alzheimer’s or dementia are dead inside their living bodies. You can see them and talk to them and show
them all kinds of affection every day, but they may not even know who you
are. They don’t know who they are
themselves. When she was no longer able
to remember to take her medicine, or remember how to cook, or bathe herself, I
was the person that everyone turned to.
For some reason she would listen to me and do what I wanted her to
do.
Everyone knows that people with Alzheimer’s forget
stuff and get things confused, but most people think it’s characteristics like
calling one daughter the other daughter’s name.
In reality, it’s much more complex than that. “Where are…uh…my uh…uh…my
sauce?” is a good example of word confusion.
The constant pausing, searching for the word, and then choosing a word
that sounds similar to the one you’re looking for is most common. This was entertaining at times, because it
was like a puzzle—trying to figure out what word she’s looking for. This, however, was not a puzzle in her head
but rather a strange reality where everyone around her was acting dumb and
pretending to think she’s crazy. She
just wanted her socks.
There were numerous times when she wouldn’t bathe
for days, even weeks at a time, because she truly believed she just had the day
before. Grandpa, although patient and
understanding to begin with, soon lost his patience and began getting frustrated. He would occasionally break down and raise
his voice in hopes she would be able to understand. Grandma, however, didn’t understand. “Jim, why are you yelling at me? I don’t know
what you’re talking about. Why are you lying to me? Why is everyone lying to
me?” she would say in an almost frightened voice. In her mind, she was right and everyone else
was lying to her. Everyone was out to
get her and was against her.
I can’t count the number of times she was completely
set on the fact that someone was coming in and taking her stuff. Shoes would disappear. Her glasses would be
gone for days, weeks even. Cups, bowls, and food would be found under the sink
or in the crock pot, and tissues were the worst. Grandma had some sort of infatuation with
tissues. From the time I was born, I could always remember her having a stash
of tissues in her purse or pocket or sleeve.
Now they’d appear not only in her clothes, but under her pillow, in her
bed, in the drawer of her nightstand, in purses, shoes, dressers, and any other
random place they don’t belong. The
clothes we’d pick out for her to wear would be some that she’d owned since the
seventies, but “these aren’t my clothes,” she would say. “These are that girl’s clothes. That girl comes in here and takes all my
clothes and never brings ‘em back. She
says she’s gonna warsh ‘em and bring ‘em back, but she’s a-lyin’ and I’m sure
of it. She never brings ‘em back.”
My grandparents didn’t make it to my graduation, but
they were, however, able to come to my graduation party the day after. Grandma didn’t like to leave the house,
because she (I believe) didn’t really know what was in the outside world
anymore. She wasn’t able to recognize
people that she had known her whole life, and didn’t know what to do in public
situations. At my party, she stayed
close to Grandpa who was a social butterfly.
Most of the time she appeared to be just taking it all in. She sat quietly and watched people socialize
as if she hadn’t seen anything like it before.
Once in a while, she’d see something that was funny in her head and let
out a little giggle. After quite a bit
of persuasion, she finally sat down on my grandfather’s knee for a
picture. She didn’t really know what was
going on, so it was hard to get her to look at the camera. When she finally did, she smiled her crooked
little smile and we snapped the picture just in time.
Now, as I sit in the not-so-comfortable green
cushioned chair beside her hospital bed, I listen to her heavy breathing,
slight coughs every now and then, and the click of the IV pump. I can’t help but to wonder where time
went. Earlier, Grandpa was here with his
buzz-cut gray hair sitting beside her bed, one hand in hers, the other holding
an old engraved cane. The battle between
staying beside her through the night and going home to build a fire so the
water pipes wouldn’t freeze fought back and forth in his head until finally the
choice to go home won. His once happy
and youthful eyes, now saggy and drooped from stress and aging, looked even
sadder when saying goodbye to his “Honeybunch.”
It just seems like yesterday when Grandma was making chicken pot pie and
whoopie pies and telling Grandpa to “go change them jeans. You can’t go to town in them jeans. They’re
dirty; go throw ‘em in the warsh.”
My grandparents, Jim and Bonnie, are the most
influential people in my life. They’ve
always been there since my birth and are who I turn to for advice and
support. Although my grandmother no
longer knows who we are or how to hold a conversation, she’s still a major part
of the lives of everyone in the family.
She’s not the person that she used to be. In fact, when I see her now, I can scarcely
remember the old days. Once in a while
I’ll dream about her, and she’ll be talking with us and having a good time, but
I know that it can never be like that again.
My grandpa has gone through a lot with her as well. He has virtually lost the love of his life,
but still visits her every day and can’t wait to be in the nursing home so that
he can always be with her. That is my
dream. That is what I want to look
forward to for the rest of my life—the love that lasts for 63 years and
counting.
Happy Birthday, Grandma!
