My nineteenth birthday, part one

My great-grandmother knew me. I don’t know any better way to put it than that. On my nineteenth birthday, I stopped by for a visit. I was on break during my freshman year in college. Having been born during the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day, I was always on break for my birthday.

She was in her late 80s and doing poorly at the time, and I am not sure whether or not this was because of the holiday season or whether she was just getting tired of living. I found her in bed. This always signaled a short visit, but I didn’t mind. As she noted when I visited before Christmas, I already had one foot out of town, and she was correct.

This would be my last extended stay in my hometown for many years. I had already started to pack up my bedroom, so my mother could turn it into a sewing room—really, a sewing room. Yet this wasn’t an obligatory visit either. I wanted to see her, if only for  a few minutes, partly out of filial duty, but partly because I enjoyed talking with her.

When I first walked in, I couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep. She was still and it was quiet. She never liked the television. She rarely watched, and when she did, she had no problem turning it off or leaving the lounge to visit with company instead. So the television was off, and the room had a quiet that tapped me gently on the shoulder to warn me to be gentle.

“Grandma?” I said softly. I waited a moment, but when she didn’t stir, I called her again, this time a little louder. While she moved a bit, she still didn’t respond or turn toward me. I called again, actually at the same level.

Sometimes I envied the nurses in the care center. When they entered a resident’s room, everyone in it and in anywhere nearby knew it. They strode in like a gust of wind, their voices and gestures filled with confidence and energy. Where I—and many others—seemed to merge with the atmosphere—the nurses brought their own with them. Sometimes I wondered if we were simply being gentle or timid.

I walked around the bed. Grandma Eckman was lying on her side, facing the opposite wall. If she was asleep, I would leave. I couldn’t see disturbing her.

“Why are you out driving in the snow?” she said with a raspy voice.

“Oh good,” I said with relief in my voice, “you are awake. For a minute there, I wasn’t sure if you were.”

“Oh, I’m awake,” she said. “I hardly sleep at all any more.”

I wasn’t sure if she was going to turn to face me or not. I could not tell the difference between her deciding to stay put or just gather enough energy to turn over. After all, she was nearly 90 years old.

“Are you uncomfortable?” I inquired.

“Honey, I’m always uncomfortable,” she answered and moved just a little bit.

I was relieved. I really wanted to speak with her and not a bundle on a bed facing away from me.

“It’s snowing,” she said again to remind me that she had previously asked why I was driving in it. Her mind sometimes was sharper than I expected.

“It always snows on my birthday, it seems,” I answered. “I like it. Last year, we had a big snowstorm, but this year not so much. Besides, I really wanted to see you. I have to go back to college in a couple of days.”

By this time she had moved enough to look at me.

Even though she was in bed and had been there for a few days, she looked exhausted. Having heard her speak several times over the past ten years about how close she was to “meeting her maker,” as she put it, I rarely thought about any of her illnesses or relapses as the final one. Of course, she always thought this was the end. Then again, most really sick people do, whether they have the flu or something like cancer.

“It looks like you’re having a rough day,” I said.

“A couple-few rough days,” she replied.

A little of the fire was back.

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” she nearly snapped. “I’m old.”

“Old?” I scoffed playfully. “You’re not even ninety.”

She rolled her eyes at me, and I laughed.

“I saw that.”

She strained a bit to roll fully onto her back and then she raised her bed to sit up some more. I gestured toward her.

“No, don’t,” she ordered. “I don’t need any help.”

I obeyed.

Once she raised herself, she began to appraise.

“Take that awful coat off,” she ordered, as if she was asking a child if he washed his hands before eating. “You look like an eskimo!”

To be continued.