Operation Accomplished

The doctor said Mary was a real trooper and that she did great. She, as usual, won all the nurses over. The told me right away when I went back about how she just grabbed her wig and pulled it off, saying she’d set it right later. I think part of her charm is this disarming combination of Southern Belle and down-to-earth Country Folk. She’ll insist, for instance, on wearing her wig out (and usually quite a bit of jewelry, although I seem to have convinced her that a ring on every finger is a bit over the edge), but then if she wants to take it off for some reason, by cracky, it’s off in a flash. But I guess it’s mostly the Southern Belle aspect that people find so charming. There’s just something about a 93-year-old who still insists on being a “lady.” Maybe it’s the notion that she is tough despite her fragile appearance because she hasn’t lowered her standards. Yes, it’s odd that people don’t see it as being snobby or superficial.

Not that she isn’t—or moreover, that she wasn’t. Apparently, there was a time when Mary wouldn’t even drink a cup of coffee at Anna’s. And she always swears she’s never driven anything but a Cadillac. So why is the first behavior appalling and the second one cute?

(Big sigh.) She about drove me crazy today. Her eye irritated her and her vision was blurred and she didn’t know why. I had to keep reminding her that she’d had an operation, and I couldn’t let her out of my sight for very long for fear that she’d rub her eye. Of course, she felt like dog doo because she’d had three hours less sleep than usual. But just like a temperamental child she refused to take a nap. Even when she sat nodding off in front of the TV, she insisted on waiting till 8:00 to go to bed. She’s just so cute—I wish you could see her! I tell her how cute she is all the time. I’m sure she thinks I’m bonkers. She just says, “Aw, honey, I’m not half as cute as you are.”

I remember when I first moved in with Mary. I didn’t think she was so cute then. In fact, we kind of got in each other’s hair. The first Spring Break I got, I went away to a spa here in Kentucky for several days. It cost me a bundle, but it was glorious to have my own little apartment again. This place was great—bedroom, bathroom, kitchen nook and little living room and located on an old farm with a path to walk that went around a lake. I was in heaven. I wrote and wrote and wrote, ate vegetarian and only watched what I wanted to when I wanted to. Lovely! Funny how by the next Spring Break my feelings had changed completely. I took my parents and Mary to the Smokey Mountains and spent every night playing Dominoes for hours because that’s what made Mom and Mary happy. (Mary is a Dominoes addict. Once you get her playing, you practically have to drag her away from the table to get her to quit. We all usually insist on stopping at around midnight—much to Mary’s chagrin, but we have to watch out for her since she doesn’t know her limit. Anna plays Poker with a group of ladies once a week, but I don’t think she loses herself like Mary does.)

You know, when Mary is sick or impaired like this, it really hits home with me why I’m doing this. I can make it sound all noble if I want, but it really all comes down to Grandma. She fell and broke her hip and then died of pneumonia when she was 94. Or something like that. I was nine. She lived down the street from us and we were down there all the time, but something happened in my life the year I was nine. I don’t know how to express it I lost Grandma before she died, and I still feel guilty about that. How must they all feel? I know Mom can’t bear to think about it. Angie says she’s wracked with guilt, but I’m not sure exactly what that’s about. She and Uncle Preacher lived in Grandma’s house, so they had to take care of her. Although I wonder how much care she really needed. She seemed so independent to me, but perhaps she wasn’t. Uncle Preacher got cancer—he was a chain smoker. He had always been such a wonderful man. Distant yet somehow loving. Loving yet somehow distant. He was really bitter about dying. I knew that as a child but I didn’t understand what dying meant. I had no grasp of the notion of time. Really, I didn’t. I didn’t learn to tell time till Gina (1 ½ years older) sat me down and taught me—because it was, in her opinion, high time. How old was I? Eight? Nine? Wow. I remember living in that dimension. That timeless dimension. I saw clocks on the wall at school, but they had no meaning for me. I noticed that we went from one subject to the other at school, but I never knew there was rhyme or reason. Things just happened. The only reason I wanted a watch was because Gina had gotten one at my age. But Gina laid down the law—no idea how to tell time, no watch. Just like she laid down the law with the bicycle basket (white plastic wicker with pink and purple plastic flowers on the front)—no idea how to ride a bicycle, no basket. There was always a price, and the price was always knowledge.

Preach passed away and then Angie got arthritis so bad that her fingers just curled up and were of little use to her. She cried around all the time. Hm. Yeah, something happened in my life when I was nine. I guess that’s when they sent Grandma to Anna’s house. Was she sick before? I don’t know. She crawled out of bed and broke her hip. I remember visiting her in the hospital. I’m sure we did. But I don’t know. The picture in my head doesn’t seem real anymore. It seems like something out of a made-for-TV-movie. I remember hearing that she’d screamed at Dr. Southard not to come in her room, that he was fired, that if he came in, she’d scratch his eyes out. Was I there? Why does it seem like I was? I couldn’t have been there. They all thought that was funny. They still laugh. It was a sign of her spunk. That’s what they think. It was a sign of her pain. That’s what I think. I feel so guilty. You can say I was only nine, only a child, but I let her go. I gave up on her just like everyone else did. We all treated her like a thing. Just like everyone who puts a loved on in a nursing home does. And we can’t do that. We shouldn’t do that. They aren’t things, they’re people. But put them in those homes and they become things. I don’t want Mary to become a thing—even if she’s never done anything in her life to merit not becoming a thing. That’s what Angie and Anna think, you know. They see how selfish and “lucky” Mary was her whole life and can’t believe she as me, someone more dedicated than any of their children, much less grandchildren. Mary who always had money, who never really had to work, who had three husbands, who acted like she was better than everyone else, who never had children.

Oh, well. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. It’s easy, most of the time, to take care of Mary. But I don’t think I could take care of Angie or Anna. It’s odd.