In the last few months, I've learnt from my father not to take it to heart whenever my grandmother asked me for my name. Sometimes, she'd pause to concentrate on her breathing while telling me the story (for the eleventh time) of how she caught her roommate (sometimes it was the lady with a bandage around her head, other times it was the lady that- in my grandmother's opinion- was only pretending to be bedridden and in a coma) trying to steal from her secret bird's nest stash. But most of the times, it'd be to ask for my name. Yesterday, my grandmother asked me who I might be- the sort of question that can and probably will make you feel sadness if not asked rhetorically by your own grandmother.
She lost almost all meaningful locomotion the third time she tumbled out of bed in the middle of the night. I've seen her walking stick transform into a wheelchair, the same way I've witnessed her hair turn from grey to white and then to black. Instead of seeking a proper diagnosis concerning the return of my grandmother's hair colour, everyone has chosen to believe that it's a side effect of the concoction of drugs that have been prescribed to her. (I believe in magic.) As I watch my grandmother struggle to remember all the wars she'd fought in her life, I'm embarrassed by my own struggle to forget the days I'd ever suffered a hurt or endured an ache, which now seem almost miniscule.
My grandmother has also recently started inquiring about when she'll be able to go home again. Fortunately, the pressures of responding are often mitigated because it is hard to tell who these questions are being directed at, now that her eyes are ruined with cataracts. However, it's equally heart- rending to sit and watch my father (her son) try to put things into perspective for her.
Gtg.
