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.