In the midst of the decorating, wrapping presents, humming "O Holy Night" under our breath, last minute dashes to a wildly insane Best Buy and the grocery store and getting lasagne ready yesterday, despite the "Santa Alerts" reported by the news and by NORAD, there was one fact that none of us could overlook:

My grandma's condition was worsening.

At 3:00 pm yesterday my mom and I took her to Baylor for an MRI, since her back needs surgery soon. Grandma was given two valium and two percocet, and by the time we got there she was a bit out of it. Baylor was empty, there were no waiting patients and minimal staff, so we joked with them and told them how much we appreciate them (which we do). Then Mom and I helped Grandma into the gown, and they wheeled her in for x-rays.

My grandma is a difficult woman. She is, hands down, the most negative person I have ever met in my life. You find a cloud with a silver lining and she will tell you about the lead poisoning you will get from it. At times I have feared this woman and her razor sharp tongue (three years ago at Christmas she made a few caustic remarks about how fat she thought I was, and when I returned to Sweden I lived on one bowl of soup a day for about three months. It was only when people kept remarking to me how ill I looked that I started eating again). At times I have tried to find other things to occupy my mind when she went on a rant. But most of the time I just don't listen-she has indeed had a horribly difficult life, and so if anyone has the right to be bitter, I would say it's her.

My mom and I sat curled up in the patient dressing area, our feet tucked around us, and just talked and-believe it or not, in that environment-made each other laugh. A steady whir of the machines hummed in the hallways, and a chriping sound (like a little birds) pinged off the walls as the machines readied themselves. And my mom and I just sat there and talked about all manner of things-high heels. Sausages. Things we don't like about our bodies. My mom mentioned how hard it is being the parent to her mother now, that it was a new role that took a lot of work and adjustment, and I thought of the masses of work my mom had been doing, and was just awed again by the stength of my mother. We just sat there, in the little cubicle, and made each other feel like things would be ok. It made my heart ache knowing that we could still feel close like that.

When my grandma was done they wheeled her back to us and she was really under the hold of the medication, she was so out of it. But the good news is, she wasn't feeling any pain, so it was a comfort to know that she had had enough medication to knock out a racehorse but finally escaped the gasping pain she'd been feeling. Re-dressing her was slow since she'd had a lot of medication, and at one point she turned to me.

"You get to spend your Christmas Eve in the damn hospital." she muttered angrily.
I knew humor was called for here. "It wouldn't be a family Christmas is one of us hadn't been here. In fact, I am thinking of needing an appendectomy tomorrow, so if you think you get center attention for this, you're wrong."

She laughed, and I was comforted by it.

As we exited the hospital a nice man went out of his way to hold the door for me, since I was pushing her in the wheelchair, and it drove home again to me just how polite and kind people are in the U.S. It's one of the biggest things I miss about the U.S., the small banter and kind chat with strangers.

When we got home Mom went in the house and readied her bed while Grandma and I made the slow walk to the house with her walker. I chatted away and encouraged her to keep going. But halfway through, the medication hit-the nausea she had been fighting was too much, and she was sick on the sidewalk. We stopped, and I told her it was all ok, we would just stop here for a second, and we slowly started moving again. We took a few steps and she was even sicker than before and all I did was tell her it would be ok again. Relax, it's ok. I'm right here.

Mom came outside and I told her what happened, so she dashed inside to get a bucket and a wet face cloth. All I could think was that we needed to get Grandma inside, laying down, to help her.

We made it there, in the end-Partner Unit, Mom and I wheeling her inside on the computer chair from upstairs. Mom and I put her to bed and she was asleep instantly, which was good.

Hours later as we had lasagne, she came out to join us. She had a few bites but was struggling with the medication, so kept dozing softly. She turned to us at one point.

"How bad is this? You get to go back to Sweden and tell them bad how your Christmas Eve was!"
"What are you talking about?" I joked. "Santa brought a load of Percocet and Vicodin for Christmas! We will be the envy of Europe!"

She laughed again, then went off to bed. I helped tuck her in. And just as I was leaving, she was sick again in the basin we had put by the bed. Mom came running and she and I stood there and soothed her and cleaned up. Mom cracked jokes and got a few smiles from my grandma, and as mom went to get a new basin, grandma turned to me.

"What willl they think when you go back to Sweden and tell them about your Christmas Eve?"
I smiled at her. "All I will be telling them is I spent time with my family. And I am, so stop thinking you've ruined Christmas Eve. You haven't. I never once thought that."

Mom came in with the newly cleaned basin, I pulled the covers up over my grandmother's shoulders, and as I did so saw she was already asleep.

I hope when she wakes up she is not nauseous, but I also hope the pain medications are still working a bit. She may be a terribly bitter woman, but she is still my grandmother and I love her very much. If I could take on her pain I would, but we all know that life simply doesn't work like that. And as we spend time thinking about my grandma and hoping that she will be ok, my mind plays back to what my mother said, that this stage of our lives is where we are the parent to our parents. And I know that if and when my mom needs me, I will step up, too-hopefully with the Titan-like strength that my mother has.

Because that's what families do.

Merry Christmas.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 02:32 PM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
Post contains 1233 words, total size 6 kb.

1 A very Merry Christmas to you too, Helen...enjoy the time with your family..you are doing a good thing this year!

Posted by: Eric at December 25, 2003 03:28 PM (fZKKx)

2 Merry Christmas, Helen. Hope you're having the happiest of holidays.

Posted by: Rob at December 25, 2003 05:13 PM (0drzk)

3 Happy Holiday again. Holidays are tough especially when close family members arent well. Keep your spirits up and even though you may be more keen to listen to what your grandmother says take it with a grain of salt since often people who are in pain themselves dont relize what weight of feeling there words carry. Well back to Eggnog.

Posted by: Drew at December 25, 2003 05:38 PM (K/rfM)

4 Yep Helen, that is what we do in families, tribes, etc...we protect our young and old.

Posted by: Marie at December 25, 2003 06:08 PM (3Y1np)

5 Merry Christmas. Old age is such a bitch. Hope your granny gets better.

Posted by: Melodrama at December 26, 2003 08:19 AM (sSn/u)

6 Merry Christmas, Helen. I truly wish your entire family a peaceful holiday. Oh, I'm yelling that from over in the eastern metroplex your way. Can you hear me? I SAID, CAN YOU HEAR ME??? :-)

Posted by: Rob at December 26, 2003 02:46 PM (pL1ga)

7 Happy Holidays again! It's amazing how much strength can be found when faced with having to deal with being a parent to your parent(s). Like you, I hope that when/if that happens, I can be a little bit like your mom, too.

Posted by: amber at December 26, 2003 02:49 PM (iJZeQ)

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