Angela L. Waderker

It’s me grandma, Angie

It’s three o’clock in the morning as I write this, and I’m up because I had a dream about my maternal grandmother, who passed away just seven days shy of Christmas last year.  And it has just dawned on me that today is Mother’s Day.  Perhaps she felt the need to be remembered today, so I will do her that honor.

Being the second of eleven grandchildren, I got to spend a lot of time with my grandparents.  They’d been married for sixty years at the time of my grandfather’s passing in 2009, and had five girls and two boys, my mother being the oldest.

I have so many memories of visiting my grandparents, most of which revolve around summer.  There was the huge apple tree at the side of the house, with its bright green, Granny Smith-like apples.  And the grapevine behind the garage, where my mother would catch a serious case of poison ivy many years later.  And there was always the white peonies, planted along side the uneven blocks of concrete sidewalk leading up to the house. They were pretty but they always attracted those huge black carpenter ants.

One of the biggest draws for going to my grandparents was getting to visit with my aunts and uncles.

• There was uncle Jeff, whom I adored because he used to take me everywhere with him.  We’d get candy and ice cream and do fun stuff together.  I wouldn’t find out until years later that he had an ulterior motive and was using me to attract and meet women!  Apparently I was pretty good at my job, because he’s been married for over forty years now to a wonderful woman.  Aside from using me as a chick magnet, my uncle Jeff is a textbook example of how a man should treat his woman.  But then he had a good example in my grandfather.
• There was uncle Bobby, whom we affectionately called ‘uncle Nasty,’ because he was always doing weird things to gross us out.  Uncle Bobby instilled in me a love for music, and introduced me to groups I never heard at home, like Pink Floyd and Aerosmith.  He also drove the coolest car, a black PlymouthRoadrunner.

  

  It wasn’t the car itself that I thought was cool at the time, it was the actual Roadrunner decals on the sides, because I loved Bugs Bunny cartoons.

• There was aunt Suzy, who I thought was the coolest person on the planet.  She was always doing something artistic and creative, like drawing caricatures of my mom, taking pictures for a photography class, or appearing in a play called Jesus Christ, Superstar.
• There was aunt Karey, who reminded me a little of my mom (short and kind of quiet).  I can’t remember a time when she didn’t have her two boys with her, my cousins DeAndre (probably not the correct spelling) and Marcus.
• Joni is the youngest, and she was my grandmother’s sidekick.  They were thick as thieves, always together.
• And last but not least, there’s my aunt Lillie, who left home early, so I really didn’t get to know her until I was a little older.

My grandparent’s house was the gathering place.  They had a huge front porch, and at the back of the house, a small three step stoop.  I don’t know how (or even why) we used to do it but sometimes there’d be about eight of us squished together, sitting on those tiny steps, telling stories on each other and enjoying the weather.

There was the “front room” where my grandfather always sat, watching the news or reading his Bible.  You didn’t just walk into the front room, you approached it silently and stood in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged, and to be granted permission to enter and say hello.  The “davenport” or the “den” was where the rest of the family hung out, free to watch whatever on tv or make as much noise as you dared.

I remember watching Sesame Street at their house, and being introduced to crunchy peanut butter, something we never got at home.  And my all time favorite?  Tang.  We only ever had Kool-Aide at our house, with the occasional pop as a treat.  I’m from Ohio so yes, it’s pop, not soda or “Coke.”  When I asked my grandmother what this sugary orange nectar from the gods was, she told me it was a secret, but one of the main ingredients was spider’s eggs.  Yes, my grandmother was a little bent, so now you know where I get it from.

I can also remember her telling us to quiet down because her “brother” was on tv, Richard Dawson (because her last name was also Dawson), who hosted the game show Family Feud long before Steve Harvey ever got the gig.  She loved her “stories” too, otherwise known as soap operas.

Other fond memories include trips to the library and Wards, at the Mellett mall, and playing hide and go seek in the church while she took care of church business.  Those Christmas speeches we had to give in front of the entire congregation…HATED ‘EM, but I guess she was trying to instill public speaking in us.  And man could she sew!  She made wedding dresses, and even had her own label.  At one point her basement looked like a Joann Fabric store.

One of the things I remember most about her was her favorite phrase; and so on and so forth.

The first time I can remember my grandmother not being the grandmother I’d always known and loved was when my grandfather had bypass surgery.  Not being able to be there, which was a common occurrence since I’d joined the military and moved away at nineteen, I called the hospital to see how things were going.

The staff put a woman on the line that could not be my grandmother.  I mean the voice was hers, but she literally went off on me simply for asking how my grandfather’s surgery had gone, so there’s no way it could’ve been her.  I was so taken aback, that to this day I can’t remember what she said, but I do remember that she yelled at me, letting me know in no uncertain terms that he was still in surgery, and promptly hung up on me.

I remember literally staring at the phone, my mouth hanging open, in shock.  This was not my grandmother, she’d never raised her voice at me.  Never needed to.  This wasn’t the grandmother who’d taught Sunday and vacation Bible school.  She’d never been anything but patient and loving with me.  I called back, and they put my aunt Suzy on the phone instead, who assured me that my grandmother meant no harm, she was just stressed out about the situation.

Some years later, I remember getting a call from my mother, telling me that my grandmother had been diagnosed with dementia.  The electric company called my aunt Lillie about non-payment of services, which led to the discovery of a number of unpaid bills.  But it was going to be ok because they would put her on medication and everything would be fine.  Except it wasn’t.  The medication made her ill, and she’d throw up so violently that it would literally cause her heart to stop momentarily, so she had to stop taking it.

A few years later in 2009 my grandfather passed, and after the funeral, we returned to the gathering place.  This was the first interaction I can remember having with my grandmother after the news of her diagnosis.  She and I were sitting alone at the table where she’d hosted countless family, Thanksgiving, and Christmas dinners, she at one end and I at the other.

She started telling me about my grandfather, and the parts of his life I never knew about.  The man before the seven kids and eleven grandkids.  About how they met, how he’d swept her off her feet, his time in the Navy, and how they had to live with her parents until he saved up enough money for a down payment for the house we were sitting in.  And then, **gag,** how he was really good in bed.  And even though I was cringing on the inside, I never let it show on the outside, because I knew at that moment I was privy to information I may not ever hear again, because she may not be able to access those memories ever again.

And I remember walking away from that conversation and breaking down in tears, worried and wondering how she’d get along without my grandfather by her side.

I remember my first visit with her after my grandfather’s passing.  With my kids at my side, I stood on that three step stoop and knocked on the door, nervous and not knowing what to expect.  She answered, and looked at us as if we were bothering her.  There was no recognition in her eyes.  “Grandma?  It’s Angie.”  Nothing.  “Your granddaughter.”  Her face softened slightly, and she opened the door to let us in.  Not because she recognized me, but because she understood the relationship between a grandmother and granddaughter.

We made our way to the front room, which was the oddest feeling, not seeing my grandfather sitting where he was always sitting 90% of the time when we’d come to visit.  We all sat down, and she looked at me, and I finally saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes.  And then a smile spread across her face, and she looked at my kids.  Suddenly, I was looking at the grandmother I’d always known.

“Angie!  And these are your babies.  Well they’re not babies anymore.  Stand up so I can see how big you’ve gotten.”  And my kids, slightly stiff and uncomfortable, stood as directed.  “My you guys have gotten so big.”  They sat down in unison.  “How old are you now?”  They responded in kind.  Her smile faded, she went silent, and stared straight ahead for a moment.  And then the entire scene replayed itself, like a record with a scratch in it.

This happened about four or five times, literally, until my son finally had to walk out of the room.  He couldn’t take seeing her like that, and didn’t want her to see the tears rolling down his face.  I got up, gave him a hug, he wiped his face and we sat back down.  We stayed a little longer, and listened to her talk about my grandfather’s death, and being alone, and how my aunt Joni had moved in to make things a little easier.  It was apparent as she spoke that she was well aware that her mind and her memory weren’t exactly as they used to be.  We left shortly afterwards.

My next encounter with her would be at a family reunion in Chattanooga in 2012, and I was so happy (and relieved) that, for the most part, she was the grandmother I’d always known and loved.  She knew who I was, knew my name, and talked to me about how she knew her husband was gone, but couldn’t remember exact details like what year he’d passed, or how long they’d been married.  Again, acknowledging that she knew she had a problem.  She also recognized my kids, but couldn’t quite recall their names, and we were both completely ok with that.  It was a really good weekend, where she was aware and present most of the time.

The last time I saw my grandmother, I was at my aunt Lillie’s house, who lives directly across the street.  She’d asked if we’d been over to see her, and I told her no because I wasn’t sure what type of reaction I would get.  I didn’t stop by out of fear.  To look in the eyes of someone who helped raise me, someone I’d visited on an almost weekly basis growing up, and have them not recognize you at all is a feeling I can’t even put into words.  Fucked up is the first phrase that comes to mind, and I know I should be able to express myself better than that, but unless you’ve been through it you can’t possibly understand.

It’s one thing to be able to say to someone “it’s me, from **insert some time, place, or special event** ” and have that person go “oh yeah, I remember now.”  But to not have the ability to do that, to have your own flesh and blood, someone so close to you, not recognize you, it’s hard for me to find the right words to express how that feels.  Not just from the perspective of the person not being remembered, but imagine being on the other end, the person not able to remember.  So yeah, it’s fucked up, all the way around, an experience that will definitely mess with your head.

My aunt Lillie offered to go get her, to feel her out and see if she was in a good place or not, and I agreed, because I really did want to see her.  And to my surprise, she came over.  She sat down, her purse in her lap, and there was recognition.  She knew who we were.  Not our names, but the glimmer of recognition was in her eyes.  She chatted for about ten minutes, and then went silent.  It’s really weird because you can actually see when they shut down, when they’re no longer ‘there,’ for lack of a better term.  Finally, she announced she was ready to go home.  My aunt told her she’d walk with her, and my grandmother snapped at her.  “I know my way home!”

I received the news of my grandmother’s passing via text message (Facebook actually), literally seconds before I had to facilitate a meeting at work.  A major meeting, in a large room, with many people gathered around, along with a conference call with many people dialed in, including upper management.  And on top of that, I had to concentrate on the flipping slides of a presentation that was shared in the room and over the internet.  I prayed no one would ask me any questions, because once I’d read that message, I was on auto pilot, and no longer there mentally.

When the meeting ended, I slipped into the bathroom and tried my best to cry silently, even though I felt as if I’d just been punched in the stomach.  Luckily no one walked in, and it took me ten minutes to get it together enough to gather my things and leave.  Or so I thought.  As I announced I would be leaving and why, I broke down yet again.  And even though most people can understand or at least empathize with a situation like that, it’s still sucks breaking down like that and being completely vulnerable in front of people you work with.  They asked if I was ok to drive, I nodded yes, and headed home.

Her decline had been quick.  At Thanksgiving, she’d gone into the hospital for a medical issue, and they released her to a nursing home, where she simply stopped eating and wasted away.  My uncles had decided to come for a visit from Texas, ironically not wanting their last time seeing her to be at her funeral, and the next day she passed.  We believe once she’d seen the last of her children, she decided to finally let go.  When I saw my grandmother in her coffin, I wasn’t even sad, because it didn’t look anything like her.  She was really thin, her fingers merely flesh and bones.  The sadness came from the memories, and seeing other relatives mourning her loss.

As I struggled to resolve the physical memory of her in my head against the reality lying in the coffin, my uncle Bobby shared with me that the funeral home had done an excellent job.  He said when he saw her in the home, he had to really search her face for any sign of the woman he’d known all his life.  “She was so thin Angie that she looked like an Ethiopian woman.  I literally did not recognize her when I saw her.”  He offered to show me a picture but I refused.  I didn’t want to remember her that way.

I know this isn’t the warm fuzzy Happy Mother’s Day message you were probably expecting from me, but after that dream, I really felt the need to share my memories, both good and bad.

I have to give the utmost respect to my aunts and uncles, especially Joni and Lillie, as they had to care for her most often after the diagnosis.  And I’m sure they saw the absolute worst of my grandmother, as dementia can turn a person very mean.

The ultimate pick me up in this story, and the thing that lifted our spirits a little after the funeral, is the fact that my grandmother is no longer suffering.  She’s free now, back in her right mind, and hanging with my grandfather again.

Perhaps they’re eating crunchy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches right now, while sipping on some ice cold Tang.  Or eating some of that caramel cake my grandfather used to make from scratch.  Man, he used to put his foot in those cakes.  Anyway, the bottom line is, they’re together again.

Happy Mother’s Day grandma, it’s me, Angie.

Excuse me while I wash my face and clear these tissues off my bed,

Angela