Farmor
This morning I woke up utterly convinced it was Sunday. I even sent an e-mail to a friend of mine saying I was so happy it was Sunday because I had no plans and could spend the day with my nose in a book. Needless to say I felt a little sheepish when I received a reply saying it was still Saturday in her time zone… and we’re in the same time zone.
It’s like getting an extra day as a present, and I wish I oculd say I had spent the day doing something extraordinary or exciting, but instead I spent it doing laundry, reading, catching up on my e-mail and watching a movie. I had dinner with a friend of mine this evening who had a good chuckle when I told him about my little mistake this morning. The odd thing is that it still feels like Sunday.
I don’t believe all days have a feeling. Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays feel similar to me. The rest of them definitely have a feeling though.
I was watching ‘Rescue me’ the other day, not a show I usually watch, but in this particular episode one of the characters had to put his wife in a home due to her Alzheimer’s disease. My paternal grandmother had Alzheimer’s. It’s a horrible disease, but moreso for the people close to the person who has the disease I think. My grandmother was a cold woman. She was never very close to my dad, and by extension my sister and myself. She wasn’t the cuddly kind of grandmother who would take you on her lap and hug you. She wasn’t the kind of grandmother who would cook fantastic meals for the entire family, truth be told she couldn’t cook at all. I didn’t really know my grandmother, she never talked about her childhood or youth. The only thing I knew she enjoyed was music, and the only reason I knew that was because she liked it when my sister and I sang.
My parents divorced before my grandmother was diagnosed. My mother didn’t really see her very often, but she was still the first one who mentioned to my dad that Alzheimer’s was a possibility. Most of my memories of my grandmother are from after she became sick. It was as if she had a personality transplant in the beginning. The woman who had always seemed so cold all of a sudden wanted to hug and kiss everyone. She would pretend to fall all the time to get attention. When things got worse she would crawl under the dinnertable to play during dinners. The first time she met my stepfather she came up behind him while he was getting something out of the fridge, patted him on his butt and said ‘Bloop, bloop, bloop’. She forgot who we were. For a while she only recognised my sister and I when we sang, and then not at all. She would all of a sudden turn up on our doorstep having walked for miles. My grandfather would come from work to irate taxidrivers who had driven my grandmother around for hours and she didn’t have any money.
I’m not sure what was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back, but my grandfather eventually put her in a home. After all he was working, and she couldn’t be left alone anymore at all and there weren’t many options left. Because she had a tendency to try to run away she had to be in a closed ward. Visiting her there was nightmarish. She didn’t know who we were and she was wasting away. There was another woman in the ward who terrified me because she seemed so angry all the time, bordering on violent. The other patients weren’t in any better shape than my grandmother. I can’t recall how long she was in the home. It seemed like she went downhill fairly quickly, but my memory could be playing tricks on me. By the time she passed away, her life didn’t have much semblance to living anymore.
I can’t honestly say I miss ‘farmor’. My maternal grandparents I miss every day, and think about every day, not so with farmor. I wish I’d known her better. I wish she’d taken more of an interest in us when we were children, but that just wasn’t her thing.
Oddly enough, my very first memory has her in it. It was when my sister was born. I was sitting in their hallway on the bench next to the phone, she was next to me helping hold the phone and I remember my mother crying on the phone when she was talking to me. I’m not sure why that one memory is the first one, or why that one is so clear. Somehow I think it had more to do with my mother crying than my grandmother.
Time for bed methinks. It’s late here, and I had a little too much wine with dinner. A lot of things going aorund in my head right now, but I’ll get back to it some other time.
Good night, sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.
If they bite, squeeze them tight so they don’t come back another night.
(Feb 11, 2006)
It’s like getting an extra day as a present, and I wish I oculd say I had spent the day doing something extraordinary or exciting, but instead I spent it doing laundry, reading, catching up on my e-mail and watching a movie. I had dinner with a friend of mine this evening who had a good chuckle when I told him about my little mistake this morning. The odd thing is that it still feels like Sunday.
I don’t believe all days have a feeling. Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays feel similar to me. The rest of them definitely have a feeling though.
I was watching ‘Rescue me’ the other day, not a show I usually watch, but in this particular episode one of the characters had to put his wife in a home due to her Alzheimer’s disease. My paternal grandmother had Alzheimer’s. It’s a horrible disease, but moreso for the people close to the person who has the disease I think. My grandmother was a cold woman. She was never very close to my dad, and by extension my sister and myself. She wasn’t the cuddly kind of grandmother who would take you on her lap and hug you. She wasn’t the kind of grandmother who would cook fantastic meals for the entire family, truth be told she couldn’t cook at all. I didn’t really know my grandmother, she never talked about her childhood or youth. The only thing I knew she enjoyed was music, and the only reason I knew that was because she liked it when my sister and I sang.
My parents divorced before my grandmother was diagnosed. My mother didn’t really see her very often, but she was still the first one who mentioned to my dad that Alzheimer’s was a possibility. Most of my memories of my grandmother are from after she became sick. It was as if she had a personality transplant in the beginning. The woman who had always seemed so cold all of a sudden wanted to hug and kiss everyone. She would pretend to fall all the time to get attention. When things got worse she would crawl under the dinnertable to play during dinners. The first time she met my stepfather she came up behind him while he was getting something out of the fridge, patted him on his butt and said ‘Bloop, bloop, bloop’. She forgot who we were. For a while she only recognised my sister and I when we sang, and then not at all. She would all of a sudden turn up on our doorstep having walked for miles. My grandfather would come from work to irate taxidrivers who had driven my grandmother around for hours and she didn’t have any money.
I’m not sure what was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back, but my grandfather eventually put her in a home. After all he was working, and she couldn’t be left alone anymore at all and there weren’t many options left. Because she had a tendency to try to run away she had to be in a closed ward. Visiting her there was nightmarish. She didn’t know who we were and she was wasting away. There was another woman in the ward who terrified me because she seemed so angry all the time, bordering on violent. The other patients weren’t in any better shape than my grandmother. I can’t recall how long she was in the home. It seemed like she went downhill fairly quickly, but my memory could be playing tricks on me. By the time she passed away, her life didn’t have much semblance to living anymore.
I can’t honestly say I miss ‘farmor’. My maternal grandparents I miss every day, and think about every day, not so with farmor. I wish I’d known her better. I wish she’d taken more of an interest in us when we were children, but that just wasn’t her thing.
Oddly enough, my very first memory has her in it. It was when my sister was born. I was sitting in their hallway on the bench next to the phone, she was next to me helping hold the phone and I remember my mother crying on the phone when she was talking to me. I’m not sure why that one memory is the first one, or why that one is so clear. Somehow I think it had more to do with my mother crying than my grandmother.
Time for bed methinks. It’s late here, and I had a little too much wine with dinner. A lot of things going aorund in my head right now, but I’ll get back to it some other time.
Good night, sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.
If they bite, squeeze them tight so they don’t come back another night.
(Feb 11, 2006)
posted by Annette at 8:13 PM
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