Seriously

The kids, Liz and I stopped at Andy's yesterday and my cousin was there, working. During the inevitable family gossip/catching up that ensued, she (Laura, my cousin) asked a very poignant question regarding The Grandma Project: Why?

Why did I do it?

Why, indeed.

Knowing my grandmother like I do--like we all do--I'm sure that it must be difficult to imagine why anyone in her right mind would knowingly and willingly try to live in the same house with her.

So the truth of the matter is, I'm not in my right mind.

No, seriously, the FSM's honest truth is that I couldn't imagine not moving her in.

What I mean is, I had to give this a try. For her. But also, and maybe more importantly, for me.

You see, of all of the people in my life when I was growing up, Grandma (and Mr. B., her husband, the only grandfather I ever knew) always, always, always made sure that I had the things I needed and that I was well taken care of. I wasn't even their child--heck, for Mr. B. I wasn't even his child's child, he and I had no biological connection at all--but they both cared for me, raised me, and treated me as if I were theirs. Or even better, probably, than they had treated their own children because I was, after all, a grandchild, and the only grandchild at that, so I'm sure that I was given much more leeway and coddled more than any of their own children were. They took me in when my parents couldn't or wouldn't take care of me and they loved me unconditionally. Their house was my house. And I've known all of my life that if I had nowhere else in the world to go and no one else to turn to, I could always--ALWAYS--go to my grandmother's. That's important, you know, to have that sense of security. Some people never know it. I was lucky.

And no, I don't think that just because she and her husband took care of me when I was a child that now I owe her something. That's not it at all. It's more like, I want to attempt--to offer--to take as good of care of her as she did me. Not out of obligation, though. . .more like a sense of familial honor. Duty? Maybe. Whatever you want to call it, I want to make sure that now, in her twilight years, when almost all of the people she had to depend on are gone, that she knows that she has at least one place, one person, she can turn to.

I don't know if it's going to work out. I truly don't. Not that these first few weeks have been completely awful, but they have definitely been challenging. Yes, I knew full well how living with her would be. I've been there and done that. But it doesn't make it any easier doing it again.

And I think that her expectations of how living with me would be are a lot different than the reality is of living with me, so it's challenging for her, too. Not only am I rarely here, but when I am here I am not content to sit in the living room and stare at the TV (no, I prefer to sit my bedroom and stare at the computer). And the dynamics have change dramatically. I'm no longer the grandchild (emphasis on the "child" part) who can be bullied and ordered around. This is my house and my rules and there's no getting around the fact that I am an adult and she is, more or less, forced to accept me and my rules or else get out.

She doesn't like this.

I don't blame her.

I wouldn't either. I can't imagine that there's a whole lot to really like about getting old. It's gotta suck to feel your body deteriorate, your mind lose its sharpness, to not be able to do things for yourself. It's gotta particularly suck to be at someone else's mercy when those things happen. And realize that there isn't a damned thing you can do about it.

I'd like to think that when old age happens to me that I won't go quite as willingly into its maw as my grandmother is going. But who knows. Point is, she's there. And she's scared. And alone. And I want to help her. So moving her in is the least I can do for her. And I don't know that I could stand myself if I didn't give it a try.

And now, no matter what happens, I can always say that I tried.

That's why.

Beware of the Greasy Back Cancer!

It's real!! My Uncle Loyd DIED from it! The GREASY BACK CANCER! Be afraid. Be very afraid. Because unless you either use a scrubby brush on a stick or have some unsuspecting (and unwilling) family member clean your back for you, you, too, could fall victim of this awful affliction. I'm serious. Uncle Loyd died!! He did.

At least that's grandma's story.

And she's sticking to it.

So now you're asking yourself, what in the hell am I talking about.

It's like this: The other night Grandma took a bath (something which, in my opinion, she doesn't do often enough) and before she got in she informed me that in a few minutes I could come and wash her back for her. I guess she has decided that this job should be my punishment for leaving her little scrubby-on-a-stick at her house--that's the only semi-rational reason I can see for thinking that she has any right whatsoever to try and force me to endure her nekkid grandma self. So anyway, yeah, she gets in the bathroom and then pokes her head out of the door and announces to me that I am to come into the bathroom and wash her back. The first time she said it I told her, in no uncertain terms, that I would not be doing any such thing. The second time she said it (she chose to ignore my response and was hoping, I guess, that if she said it again that it would make it so) I just pretended to be deaf. Two can play that game.

Time passed.

She emerged from bathroom, dressed for bed, and very pitifully demanded--(Yes, as strange as it sounds, you can, in fact, pitifully demand; Grandma has perfected the art of the pitiful demand.)--to know why I had not come in and washed her back.

Well, I told her, as I did before she'd gotten in the tub, that it just wasn't in my job description and I just simply wasn't gonna do it. Of course this prompted her to remind me that she had taken care of me and washed my back all those years when I was a child. She loves to use that--that she took care of me (or Dad or Liz, depending upon who she's talking to and about)--as justification for why I should be at her beck and call and always willing to do whatever icky task she needs for me to do. But it doesn't fly with me. I have an obligation to my children to take care of them until they are old enough and capable enough to take care of themselves. That's what parents (or caretakers/guardians) do. This does not mean that they, the children, are obligated to reciprocate. Grandma wishes that it were that way, but it's not. So there.

Anyway, so after not getting anywhere much with the whole "I did it for you" spiel, she tried a different tactic, and that's where the GREASY BACK CANCER comes in.

You see, if I don't wash her back for her she might, as Uncle Loyd did, acquire a build up of oils on her back that will turn into, as it did for poor ol' Uncle Loyd (whoever he is--I do not know this person and I suspect that he lived way before my time), the dreaded BACK CANCER. And won't I be sorry then, when Grandma is stricken with the greasy back cancer and dies from it 'cause it will be all my fault!

Woe is Grandma.

All because I wouldn't come into the bathroom and wash her back for her this one evening.

I am not joking.

This conversation really took place. And she was serious!

I know it's mean, but I laughed out loud. Hysterically. I snorted I was laughing so hard. I had to leave the room.

Fortunately Liz brought her scrubby-on-a-stick over soon after all this went down so no more greasy back cancer argument. Or need for me to endure any grandma nekkidness. (Although she still wants me to come in and check on her when she's in the tub. I'm beginning to wonder if my grandmother isn't some kind of exhibitionist or something.)

But anyway, the scrubby-on-a-stick is here and all is well for now.

Except the other day I noticed this little spot right in the middle of my back. . .

Next time I'm in the shower I'll get Lizzie to come and check it out for me.

:-)

I have a bedroom!

I do, I do, I do have a bedroom! It was there the whole time, underneath a buncha boxes!

So that's how I have spent my entire Sunday--unpacking the bedroom. And I'm happy to report that it's all done. Well, mostly all done. I haven't put much on the walls and a lot of my knickknack stuff is still packed up someplace. But I'll get to that. The important thing is that the furniture is where I want it and there's not one cardboard box left in the whole room.

Next week it's the dining room.

Then I'll finish the bonus room.

And then I'll be done!!!!

Woohoo!

I like my room. It's big and airy and comfy feeling. And I have a bathroom and my big ol' closet right here. Not a lot of reason to go anywhere else in the house, really. (Except to the kitchen, where we keep the food and the wine.)

I have currently holed myself up in here and I should be finishing up my homework but there's only so much "foreign currency concepts and transactions" I can handle, so I have taken a break to post a little something here.

Grandma has been OK today. She's watched A LOT of TV, but, well, what else can she do? She needs some hobbies. All she ever does is eat, sleep, use the bathroom and watch TV. I'd be so miserable if that's all I ever did. She did mention today that she wants to start getting out more, but where? Except going to the senior center and once a week getting her hair set, there's not a lot left for her to do. I guess we could up her senior center days to more than just Mondays and Fridays. Of course, doing that would mean that she'd have to get up and get ready to go fairly early in the day and she probably wouldn't want to do that.

I try to think about what I want to do/be like when I get to be her age. . .

I'll have a lot of friends. And I'll have many interests, such as quilting and knitting and poker playing, to keep me busy. And when I'm not off traveling the world or winning big in poker matches, I'll be surrounded by happy, sticky, darling little grandchildren. I'll also tend to several lush, flowering gardens around the yard. And I'll read lots and lots of books. I might not even own a TV set.

That's how I hope my life will be when I'm in my 70s.

Or at least something close.

Whatever it is, it will NOT be like my grandmother's.

I hope.

I'll see to it.

I just wish that Donald could be with me then. That's the only sad part.

I just won't think about that right now. I can't. It's too depressing.

Speaking of Donald, here he is. What does he want? He smells like garlic. And onions. What nice smells! I can't believe someone hasn't marketed those two scents together in a home spray or cologne or something.

He says dinner is ready soon. I guess that means that I should go contribute somehow. Or at least go pick at whatever is ready and smelling so good in there.

The week that was a month long

So it's been one whole week now that Grandma has been with us. It feels like a lot longer than just a week, but yeah, it's only been seven days.

The beginning of the week did not go well. Grandma was suffering from some gastrointestinal distress of sorts and, while I won't go into any gory details, let's just say I'm very happy that it's over and I'm hoping that we never have to go through something like that again.

She's balked several times over the whole "please" thing, but in general she hasn't been too bad about it. Better than I expected, actually. With the one exception being the episode where she thought she'd test me on it in the middle of her cardiologist's waiting room. Kinda like a little kid, you know, who acts up in public to see if mommy will actually backhand him in the presence of other people. And no, I didn't backhand her (not that it wasn't tempting) but I did not back down on my expectation that she ask me for what she wants in a nice and polite way, no matter if we're in the middle of a waiting room and she is trying embarrass me into doing whatever it takes to keep her quiet.

Of course, the big test will be this evening. The whole family is coming over to eat dinner and celebrate my father's birthday (March 13 was his birthday--happy bday, Dad!). It's going to be a wonderful opportunity for Grandma to stir up trouble and try to get away with being rude and impolite. It'll be interesting to see how she does.

Well *sigh* it's already nearly 10 a.m. and William has to be taken into work for a "talk" with da boss. Not sure what this means for him. Obviously he's done something that warrants a talking to for it, but I hope they're not letting him go. I would have been devastated to have gotten fired at his age. Actually, I'd be devastated to get fired at any age. I've never been fired in my life. Knock on. . .something. Would love to get through my entire life without that particular experience. Anyway, point is, I gotta get up from here and get going.

No rest for the mommy.

The Morning After

Sooooo, it's the morning after Grandma's first official night at our house. And already I'm feeling homicidal. Not a good sign.

In all fairness, though, it's not all her. It is PMS time again and that plays a huge role in my feelings towards other human beings in general. But already we're having issues with the "please" thing. Having her demand that I fulfill some kind of "need" of hers just lights my fanny on fire. ("Carmen, I need a cereal bowl!" "I need the juice opened!" "I need for you to come here!")

PEOPLE IN HELL NEED ICE WATER, GRANDMA!

Say PLEASE!

"Open the juice." "Please."

Not once a sincere please. Not yet.

And then there's the talking no matter that the person she's talking to is already engaged in conversation with someone else. She simply doesn't care who's talking to whom, when she has something to say she's going to say it. It drives me wild. Donald, bless his saintly heart, seems perfectly OK just ignoring her. I'm trying that tactic, but it's difficult.

So on top of teaching her please we now have to work on not interrupting.

And then there's this whole deafness routine.

OK, maybe it's not a routine, but it seems to me that when you don't want her hearing something she has ears like those of a rabbit. No problem at all picking up on things that aren't directed at her and don't concern her. But comments intended for her? Suddenly she has issues. There were two instances of this just this a.m. The first one was about the microwave. Which, first off, she insists on talking from other rooms. No matter where in the house she is and no matter what the other people in the house are doing, she'll start talking. So OK, I hear her in the kitchen.

"Carmen, I need you to tell me how to work this microwave."

(There's that need thing again!)

"Press timer, punch in three, zero for thirty seconds and then press start."

"What?!"

I repeat myself.

"What's that last part? That last thing you said?"

"Press START!"

"What?!"

"PRESS START!!!"

"Dark?"

Thank god Donald was here. Even if he was enjoying this whole transaction a little too much, he did, upon being asked, go into the kitchen and show her the damned "start" button, thereby diffusing the situation. I mean, even if she is deaf (which she's not), we were talking about the microwave. All she had to do was pause a moment to actually process and think about what was being said to her: "Gee, she's saying a word that sounds like 'dark' but that can't be right and since we're discussing the microwave oven. . .what word sounds like 'dark' but would have something to do with the microwave? Oh, I know! I bet that she's saying 'start.'"

Oh, and then there was the weather.

I was sitting on the living room couch and I was on the phone, calling social services in Wake county to see about applying for services for her, when from her bedroom or the bathroom or someplace over in that direction anyway I hear "Carmen, what is the temperature supposed to be. Do I need a coat? What's the temperature?" Now I'm trying to listen and figure out which of the 1001 automated options it is that I need to choose in order to speak to someone, the stereo is on and already providing a slight distraction and then Grandma decides, without bothering to see where I am or what I'm doing, to insist that I become her personal meterologist and clothing consultant. Grrrr. So anyway, I hiss at her that I'm on the phone. She doesn't/can't/refuses to hear me and says again, "CARMEN! What's the temperature!" A little louder this time: "Grandma, I'm on the phone." "CARMEN!" "GRANDMA I'M ON THE PHONE!" "Oh, you're on the phone."

Grrrrrr.

Breathe.

I think I'm going to be working much longer hours soon.

The Grandma Cometh

Yep, this Saturday is G-day. I can feel the dark clouds of gloom forming on the horizon. It's the end of my world as I know it.

I'm stressing.

The plan is to have her brother come pick her up Saturday a.m. and get her out of the way. I've rented a U-Haul and will pick it up at 8 a.m. Dad, Liz, Carol, Alex, and I will descend upon the house and move all of her bedroom furniture, leaving the rest to be dealt with later. She will spend the night with Uncle C.L. and go to church the next day and then. . .she's there.

Whew.

I know I have had a long time to prepare, but I'm still not prepared.

But. . .she is 5th now on the RobinHood/Wood/whatever list so this is a good time because it'll give her a few months with us for each of us to determine if accepting the position there isn't a better idea.

And she has been working on her "pleases," although she has a long way to go before she fully mannerly of her own volition.

Way too much going on to write much now. Just anyone keeping up with this, wish me luck. LOTS of luck. I'm gonna need it.

Will report back on Sunday. . .

Crazy

My life in one word: crazy.

I haven't even had the time/taken the time to write in weeks now! That's how crazy things are for me.

And right this very moment I have soooo much stuff to do that I really shouldn't be sitting here doing this and I'm feeling really guilty that I am but oh well, gotta do this some time and procrastination is my forte anyway. . .

So what's up? Well, the house is still pretty much at the same stage of unpacking that it was last week. This is because I had to devote all my time this past week to work. It was an awful month-end close (I'm back with my "real" group now) and I worked until I couldn't see straight every night and then I came home and just sat like a zombie.

Speaking of work, I have a job interview on Monday. At GSK. It's a lateral position but in a new group and with a lot of potential for growth. I hope I get it.

Oh well, now I have a phone call. I guess I'll go talk. I haven't yet mastered multitasking to the point that I can type and talk.