TheBanyanTree: SUB: The Long Way Home (983 words)

[pat.martin]

The Long Way Home



by Pat Martin

(992 words)



As I strode toward the hospital's Extended Care Unit to visit my
grandmother, I thought about life's unfairness.  I recalled Granny's words,
repeated many times over the years.

"I don't ever want to become so old and helpless that I need to be cared for
like a baby."

I remembered my naiveté; I had no doubt that God would grant that one simple
request.  After all, Granny was kind, generous and unselfish.  She was a
good person who always tended to others' needs and seldom asked for
anything.

As a child, I spent many weekends visiting my grandparents' farm.  Papa, a
violent alcoholic, frightened me, but Granny and I were best friends.  After
breakfast, Granny routinely sponge-bathed at the kitchen sink then
vigorously scrubbed her teeth with tooth powder or baking soda.  Growing up
in the Depression of the 1930's had permanently affected her.  Always, even
when it was no longer necessary, she scrimped, saved and conserved.  She
considered a sit-down bath extravagant, and when she treated herself to one,
a scant inch of hot water filled the tub.

My grandmother never worked at a paying job.  She didn't have fancy clothes
or a bank account of her own, but she took pride in her appearance.
Well-groomed and attractive with short auburn curls, soft, hazel eyes and a
radiant smile, she was especially proud of her perfect, white teeth.

Granny worked hard on the farm-the chores never ran out-but on weekends, she
laced up her runners for an hour's walk in the woods.  As we hiked, we
discussed everything from proper nutrition to our common love of horses.
Always, she pointed out and named the plants, wild flowers and birds we saw
until, I, too, developed a keen eye for nature's beauty.

Although Granny's hugs and kisses were rare, she showed her love by spending
time with me and teaching me life skills such as cooking, cleaning and
sewing.  Through her example, I learned to be truthful, nonjudgmental and
compassionate; she taught me to always do my best.

In her early seventies, Granny suffered several strokes and became
semi-paralyzed.  She required permanent, full-time care and was
hospitalized.  To her loved ones' dismay, she did not attempt to overcome
her disabilities.  Instead, she decided to die.  After all, she didn't want
to be dependent.  But Granny had led a healthy lifestyle; she was much too
strong.  To her disappointment, she wasn't able to will her own demise.

Granny soon lost all ability to move her arms and legs.  She ate
infant-sized portions-only a few tablespoons of food at each meal-and her
body wasted away until she became matchstick thin.  The nurses fed, diapered
and bathed her according to a schedule tacked to the bulletin board next to
her bed.  The only control Granny maintained over her life was her ability
to say no.

To everyone's bewilderment, she wouldn't allow the nurses to brush her
teeth.  "No," she said when they approached her, toothbrush in hand, until
finally they stopped trying.  Her perfect, white teeth rotted and her gums
became infected; a foul smell surrounded her.  At eighty-three, Granny
suffered her final indignity-for health reasons, all her teeth were
extracted.

In the early years, the wheelchair-bound patients with their lolling heads,
slumped bodies and vacant eyes upset me, and each visit to the Extended Care
Unit required mental preparation.  Two or three times a year I made the
twelve-hour road trip to see my grandmother and each time, she was less
recognizable.  I always cried afterward.

Later, visits became more bearable as I learned to distance myself from the
patients' frailties and mutterings and the faint smell of urine and hospital
disinfectant, though one particular voice haunted me.  While visiting
Granny, I often heard a woman's shrill, non-stop giggle-the sound of
madness-coming from a nearby room.  Outwardly, I ignored the maniacal
laughter, but inside, a wire band wrapped tightly around my chest.  I pitied
Granny and all the other patients who had no choice but to endure it.

Although I toughened up considerably, I was unable to detach from Granny's
situation.  She had suffered a lengthy, abusive marriage and mountains of
other family disappointments.  Now, she had no choice but to tolerate years
of total dependence.  I wondered why God hadn't allowed her to die with her
dignity intact-the way she wanted, the way she deserved.

Once, years earlier, I had broached the subject while stroking her pale,
parchment-dry hand.  "I know this isn't what you wanted," I said with a
trembling voice.  Her eyes glistened with tears but she made no comment.

I pulled myself back to the present and checked my watch as I entered the
hospital.  Granny was expecting me.  When I reached her room, I was
surprised to find her bed empty.  Alarmed, I shot into the hall and began to
search.  Finally, I spotted two wheelchairs at the end of a long corridor.
I couldn't see their occupants but I heard the familiar, mad tittering that
always set my nerves on edge coming from one of them.  As I neared, I saw my
grandmother seated in the other.  She smiled.

"Hi Granny," I said, and ducked to kiss her sunken cheek.

The tiny woman in the chair beside her didn't acknowledge my presence.  I
realized then that the unworldly sound coming from her lips was high-pitched
weeping, not laughter.

"Let's go back to your room," I said, smoothing Granny's baby-soft, white
hair.

That day I appreciated that even in the worst circumstances, Granny was
considerate.  Unlike the woman whose thread-thin voice rose and fell in a
cadence of misery, my grandmother locked in her suffering; she never
complained or wept.  For nearly fifteen years, Granny waited for the end in
stoic silence.

When the long-distance call came telling me Granny had passed away, I was
glad for her-and grateful-so very grateful that God had finally come to take
her home.



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