My grandmother died June 4.

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/newsobserver/obituary.aspx?n=sadie-j-bennett&pid=143338690

It's been almost two months now. And I miss her terribly.

Not that I was all that great about keeping up with her while she was here. But that doesn't really matter. Because when she was here, she really wasn't here. Not in the end.

Or was she?

I realize, in retrospect, that I never really knew my grandmother.

One of the most important influences on my life. And I never knew her. How the fuck does that happen?

Because we take each other for granted, that's how. Or at least that's certainly what happened in my case. I took it for granted that my grandmother loved me and would look out for me no matter what. I never bothered to wonder who she was and what she wanted. What she hoped for, what she dreamed about. I never asked her how she got to where she was and what she thought about the situation.

I'm such a dumbass.

I miss her so much.

I wish I could have protected her more than I did in the end.

Not a total loss...

OK, now we've had a couple of no-gMa months. Carmen has clearly stated her happiness with this situation, and I feel compelled to chime in here at last with some of my own observations:

1) Having her here was hardest on the others, I reckon because she and I have no past emotional entanglements at all. While I most assuredly concur that she can be very demanding and somewhat maddening to say the least, I was pretty much able to let it roll off my back.

2) Having her here was good for her. She really did seem to be learning the word "please," and once or twice said it without disdain, condecension, or followed by the word "whatever." On a few occasions, she was almost pleasant. Plus, as she is on a very limited income, it was convenient for her not to have to buy food or pay utilities, etc., so she was living rather high on the hog.

3) It was hard for the kids, because as she learned that Carmen and I had expectations of her, she figured that she could still pull rank on the kids.

4) When she eagerly moved in with us, it apparently had not dawned on her that we each had a life, and, what with school and jobs, she was not going to have company all day. Thus, she frequently complained of loneliness, despite our being there in the evenings and all night.

5) While we were indeed there in the evenings and at night, her general attitude caused each of us to seek a hiding place (bedrooms, upstairs, crouched under the rear deck, etc. My favorite place was under a pile of jackets in our closet). Therefore, even when we were there, she justifiably felt abandoned.

6) One can get really tired of telling someone that "I don't know when [Carmen|William|Lizzie|I] will be back." That seemed to be her favorite conversational gambit: the comings and goings of everyone.

I suppose what puzzles me in all this is that she is so clueless. I have heard her being told in no uncertain words that the reason that people don't want to be around her is her lack of courtesy and her constant complaining. I have been a participant in innumerable conversations when she has been told that telling people what to do is unacceptable and that the simple courtesy of asking with a "please" would make all the difference in the world. Still, she literally argues this point and tells us that she is not being rude, thus never seeming to understand that her loneliness is her own fault.

I guess it all comes down to her selfishness. This is a woman whose only concern about others is how their situations will influence her. I still see her at least 3-4 times a week, as I drive her to appointments and the local Senior Center. Since she has left us, she has reverted, I fear..."please" seems to have again fallen out of her vocabulary, and most of our conversations center on how miserable she is (and my reiterating that I really don't know when [Carmen|William|Lizzie|I] will be home.

More's the pity--she had a good thing going. All she needed to do was to try to be pleasant or at least not be a demanding old biddy. She now claims to be lonely at Robinwood (despite there being dozens of folks there 'round the clock). I fear her very same lack of concern for others and her "it's all about me" attitude are now contributing to her loneliness at Robinwood, for surely her sour mien must be wearing on her peers, as well. I guess it still hasn't dawned on her that she drives people away.

Thus far, I've heard no talk of her moving back with us. This is a Good Thing^® as we have all become rather accustomed to being able to move about our home freely, the house now smells better (don't ask)...and it's hard to breathe under all those coats.

So what's it like?

I'm not a very good blogger, am I? Once a month just doesn't cut it, if you strive to be a well-known blogger. Oh well. It's the best I can do. On such short notice.

Or whatever.

Anyway. . .

Yeah, so it's been a month.

A month of peace. And solitude. And of no mGma, in general.

So what's it like with no mGma about? Well, it's like. . .bliss. Unequivocal joy. No coming into the house, brief pleasantries, and off to the safe haven of my bedroom. Nowadays, I can actually go into my living room and read the paper! No blaring TV, no constant game of twenty questions. No having to worry with who's coming over, whether mGma expects to eat with us, how she'll behave, IF she'll behave, having to explain my comings and goings each and every time I leave or enter the house.

In a word: Nice.

I feel much more at home in my home. It's hard to explain, but there really is a big difference. When she was here there was a lot of anxiety. Resentment. Animosity. Not overt, but underlying. Barely perceptible, just under the surface. Well, OK, depending on the day, it might be just under the surface or it might be right there on top, in your face, no doubt about it, I was just not feeling the love and was armed for bear. But for the most part, having to deal with mGma was a constant. . .annoyance. She just wasn't (isn't) pleasant.

Now don't get me wrong. I love her. I do. And I'd defend her tooth and nail against any non-family detractors. I can talk shit about her all day long, but YOU can't, see. That's just how it works. I know, it makes no sense logically, but that's just how it is. But I can bitch and moan about her all day long, because I'm family. That's why I have this blog.

But as I was saying. . .she just wasn't pleasant. And I'm happy as a little clam about having my house to myself again. Or, should I say, having my house to myself finally.

Although, I don't have it to myself tonight. William has a whole bushel full of teenagers over. And one of them brought a ukulele! Of all things! It's bad enough we have a banjo in the house, now we have to listen to ukulele.

It could be worse, I guess. It could be a bagpipe.

Thank FSM for small favors.

Oh well, Donald is snoring. There's just no rest for the weary in this house. Woe is me.

But at least mGma is on her own and thriving. To the best of her abilities, anyway.

And I have my house to myself. Most times, anway. Right after I run off all these teenaged miscreants.

It's G-Day

The day scheduled as the end of the Grandma Project. The end of the occupation.

I'm excited!

Last Saturday we (Dad, William, Liz, and I) moved (way too much of) her furniture over to Robinwood. This Saturday we move her bedroom stuff from my house. Tonight she spends her first night at Robinwood, and we spend our first night alone as a nuclear family again. Can I get a "WoooHooo!"?!

I say that this is the end of the Grandma Project, but really it isn't. It's just a new chapter in the saga. Sure, no longer will I have to deal with the blaring TV, the twice a day game of Twenty Questions (coming and going), the continued scuffing of my brand new furniture from her rolly walker thingy, etc. Nope, now I'll have to deal with constant demands to come and see her, phone calls complaining about how lonely she is, and numerous, frequent trips to Wendell to visit, take her things, help her shop, etc.

Oh well, Liz is here to start moving.

Oh boy!

Let's get this thing started!

Three Times in Two Days

One day, really.

Just slightly over a 24 hour time span.

That's how many times mGma fell between Saturday afternoon and Sunday evening.

The first time she fell in the kitchen. I wrote about that already, wondering how these falls seem to (fortunately? strangely?) time themselves to occur on the rare occasions that I'm at home.

The second time she fell was at 6 a.m. Sunday. She fell out of bed. Rolled out of bed, I suppose, is more like it. Whatever she did, she ended up on the floor, hollering, early Sunday a.m. The one Sunday that I probably could have slept for a few more hours (unlike most Sundays, which have become my insomnia days here recently). She's lucky I am a mother and, thus, have Mom-Dar ears. Her bedroom is on the opposite side of the house, and her door was shut AND my door was shut, but because I am a trained, experienced mother I can discern, in my sleep, between a freight train bearing down on the house (something not worth waking up for) and a muted cry for help (something for which I will immediately bolt upright). Had it just been Donald and William in the house, well, she still might be lying on the floor today. But fortunately I was there to haul her (rather substantial) hiney up off the floor.

The third time she fell was Sunday evening. She was in her room, getting ready for bed, and simply missed her chair and ended up on her butt again. It's not a surprise that she should miss like that, since she doesn't really sit so much as she sort of aims and crashes down in a chair. So yet again, I went and scraped her up off of the floor.

I told her then that was ENOUGH. The third time had to be IT. No more falling, dammit. I'm going to pull my back out lifting her up. And one of these days she's really going to hurt herself.

What is this all about, do you suppose?

Three times? In one weekend? And only when someone was home.

Is it merely coincidence? Or is this her way of saying that she doesn't really want to go to Robinwood? Or is it her way of getting my attention, since I refuse to vegetate in the living room, staring at the TV with her? Or maybe it's that she's decided since someone is home, she doesn't need to be quite as careful with herself; there's someone there to pick her up, so being a klutz is acceptable?

I'm thinking that it's a little of all of the above. With a strong leaning towards not truly wanting to go to Robinwood.

I'm so afraid of that. That she's going to get over there and love it for awhile, but then three or four months down the line, after I have redecorated her room and gotten extremely comfortable having my house back to myself, she's going to decide she's miserable there and want to come back. And I told her she can come back.

It'll be interesting to see what the future holds in that regard.

Will she like Robinwood? Will she make friends? Will she, perhaps, maybe, possibly be happy?

I'm no believer in miracles, so I'm not going to hold my breath for any of that. But the possibility does exist, so there's hope.

This Saturday has been designated as moving day.

Stay tuned.

I'm Baaaaaaack. . .

Jeez, I am such a bad blogger! I do this with journals and diaries, too. I always start out with the best of intentions, saying to myself that I'm going to be disciplined and write a little bit each day. Then, for a few days, sometimes even a few weeks, I'm very, very good about it, jotting down facts about the day, about what's going in life, etc.

But then one day sitting down and jotting something about my already crappy, busy day seems like one more chore that has to be done. So I don't write. I wait a few days and then I write a little when I'm feeling better. And I write for the next couple of days. And then I have a busy, crappy day again--or sometimes just busy, not necessarily crappy, too--and writing becomes, once again, SOMETHING ELSE TO DO. And so, having turned it into a chore, I react to it like I do with all other chores: I loathe it. And despise it. And only do it begrudgingly. And then I think to myself, why do I bother? If it's not fun to write, don't write. I mean, duh. So then I don't write for a long time (in this case, over a month) and then I feel bad and I miss it and, because I have so many fascinating, important things to say, I feel I'm doing society some disservice by withholding all this literary prowess from my adoring fans. So I decide to write again.

So here I am.

At home, on a sunny, hot Saturday on the first day of July. I haven't so much as opened an outside door today. No, wait, that's not true, I did open the front door so that the cat could find his way out as I herded him towards the foyer with the spray bottle. But I don't really count that, since I opened it and then immediately ran back to the living in order to keep the cat from going down the hall, and then, once the idiot cat went out, I shut it with my foot.

Anyway, point is, I haven't ventured far from my bed today. Not that I've been a lazy slug all day, because I haven't, I've actually been pretty productve. More like a sated mole. I got up around 9. . .thirty? I don't know. Nine-something. Started doing work stuff (trying to avoid working on the fourth) and kept doing it until noon. Then I read a bit in my new book. (I shouldn't buy books when I have all these classes, but I couldn't control the urge the other day and bought a fluffy little beach book, which shouldn't distract me too much from my studies, since it'll be so much fun, I'll read the whole thing in less than two days.) Then I took a shower, and now here I am.

I thought I might go to Lois's house in a bit. Donald is at the store, Lizzie is with Billy, William is at work, Mom is MIA, Shaile is at the beach, Willa's in Asheville, Kristen is at the lake (where I was invited, but it's too late now and I'm feeling too lazy), I have done all the work I can do today, and I'll do the little bit of homework I have to do I'll do later today, so I'm going to hang with Lois for awhile. Haven't seen her much lately and she and Bill are always a lot of fun. Of course, even getting my act together enough to go even that far seems like a bit of an ordeal, but I'm going to work at it.

Grandma is watching TV. Her second favorite pastime (first is eating). She'd love it if I would just stay here and plop down and watch TV all afternoon. But I can't do that. It's just too pretty and I have too few obligations today, so I need to take advantage of the opportunity.

She fell today. Just a little while ago. It's verrrry odd to me, the last. . .four? five? times she's fallen have been, coincidentally, on days when I've been at home. Understand, I am hardly ever home. I mean it, hardly ever. I'm normally here early in the mornings and late at night; it's very rare for me to be here for more a few consecutive hours at a stretch (not counting overnight). This means that mGma (my Grandma, pronounced MIG-ma) has, statistically speaking, a greater chance of falling when someone is NOT at home; however, she somehow manages to only fall on the rare occasions when I am here. I wonder what gives? Is it merely coincidence? Or is she subconsciously doing it on purpose, for attention?

Dunno.

Anyway, oh well, if I'm going to Lois's I guess I need to get up and go. It's almost 3:00 now.

Oh, yeah, the biggest thing there is to write about is that yesterday mGma signed the lease! At ROBINWOOD! Yesssss! Oh, stop saying that, I am NOT mean! I will, believe it or not, miss her being here. But I will also be happy to have my house to myself. To not have to hear the damned TV blaring all the time. (After she's gone, I'm not even going to have a downstairs TV, I don't think). To not feel as though I'm constantly having my space invaded and that my room is the only sanctuary I have in the entire house. I'm looking forward to all of that.

Of course, I'll also worry about her, being there in her apartment all alone at night. But I think (I'm hoping) that having all those people around her during the day will make her happy enough and that I won't have to worry about her in the long run because she'll be having too much fun to be lonely.

We'll see.

Off to Lois's. . .

Attention Psychology Students

Especially those of you who consider specializing in the elderly! I have the perfect person for you to meet. Turn her into a case study. Use her for your master thesis. Whatever you want to do with her, I'm fine with it.

I think she'd make for a fabulous project. If only someone could get into her head and confirm, once and for all, what the underlying reason is for her (bad) behavior. Or, I guess, if there even is a reason for it. Sometimes I get the feeling that my grandmother is truly lacking some crucial piece of mental, or emotional, capability--that piece that allows the majority of us to feel empathy, understand relationships and behave in a way that is acceptable by society's standards.

Grandma, it seems, just cannot do those things. Or she will not do them, one.

She's just so. . .self-absorbed. Self-centered.

Unpleasant.

I know now why Mr. B spent so much time outside. Avoiding her is the only way to coexist with her. Mr. Bennett, rest his soul, didn't have any hobbies or excuses for getting away. If he had, maybe he'd still be here with us.

Me, I come home, say hello and immediately go to my room. Once there I LOCK the door (just shutting it has no effect--she's not past opening it if she's determined to get to me). And that's where I'll stay, for the most part. I do sneak out occasionally to go to the kitchen, or outside to play with the kids. And we do eat dinner together usually. Generally that's not too unpleasant of an activity; although her table manners, like her manners in general, often leave a lot to be desired. Other than that, though, I studiously avoid her.

It's sad, really. I have no desire to be around her. And I do actively avoid her. I sneak around my own house just so I don't have to interact with her because interacting with her is generally an unpleasant experience.

And why? That's what I'd like to know. Why is she the way she is? She's been told many times, and in no uncertain terms, exactly what she does that causes me (and the rest of her family) to feel the way I do about her and respond the way I do to her, but it has no effect on her behavior whatsoever. And not only does it have no effect, it's as though she's hearing it all for the very first time anytime someone mentions the cause and effect of her behavior to her.

It's so frustrating.

She has the information to make changes. If she'd only listen and absorb the feedback she gets. But she won't. Or she can't. I can't decide which it is. Maybe it's both. She can't, but if she could she wouldn't?

Yes, I know that doesn't make sense, but that's Grandma. People ask me all the time how it's going living with her and I always tell them, you'd just have to meet her to understand.

There's no one else like her.

And that could be a good thing. In most cases being unique is a plus. In Grandma's case, though, it isn't.

I wish that someone could just. . .fix her. Get inside her head, figure out what's there, maybe give her some medication to make the wheels turn and the cogs click again (if they ever did to begin with). Ever the optimist, I keep waiting for the epiphany--surely one day she's going to experience one? Right? (Please?)

In the meantime, I guess I'll continue this Mission Impossible approach to cohabitation. It sounds mean, I know, I'm fully aware, but it's the only way to survive her.

(Note: It's Sunday a.m. Guess what time I woke up?! Grrrrrrrr. I suppose I should be thankful, though, I'm just a weekend insomniac now. Actually, just a Sunday a.m. insomniac. Perhaps there is a god and he has a very evil sense of humor?)