Grandmother

I was playing Words With Friends—an online Scrabble version—last night. I got the most points in one play, 96, I ever have. Well, I ever have on my own.

When I was 11, we were visiting Dad’s parents in Scottsdale, AZ. Grandmother loved playing Scrabble. She had a vocabulary that was amazing, far above what most people do. She also didn’t believe in letting children win games. Even her firstborn grandchild. Who was only in middle school. And so adored her grandmother.

We were playing one afternoon, and she was way ahead near the end of the game. Daddy came into the living room, looked at the score, looked at the board, looked at her letters, and looked at my letters. He checked the board again, moved a few of my letters around on the stand, pointed to a spot on the board, and said, “Play this, here.” I don’t remember the word, but I do remember I had no idea what it meant. However, I did what he said.

I had a couple of high-point letters. The word used several of the bonus squares.  It also used all seven letters. Between those letters, the bonus squares, and the 50 extra points for going out, I had well over 100 points. Daddy walked off. He was probably smiling. Grandmother didn’t say much. I don’t remember her smiling. We finished the game. She was a gracious loser, as she was gracious in everything, but we never played Scrabble again. (That’s probably where Dad got it from. We never played Monopoly again after I won. Something about his railroads, but that’s another story.)

Other Games

She still played Scrabble with others. When we learned about “speed Scrabble,” she loved that and would play it with Mom and Dad and even me on occasion. She did the big crossword puzzles in the newspaper. In ink. Grandmother also liked the Jumble puzzles, where the letters are mixed up in four sets and the solutions to that provide the letters for the final puzzle that relates to the comic panel. Dad did too. Not a problem when they were separate. Not a problem when they were together either. Grandmother did them first. In her head. When she was done, she’d hand the still-blank puzzle to Dad for him to do.

By the time I was in college, our game had become gin rummy. She won most games. I started teasing her, telling her she cheated. I knew she hadn’t. She was a true lady and never would have. It was hilarious to watch her protest that she most certainly had not cheated! I’d grin. One of us would shuffle the cards, and we’d play another hand. Which she would win.  

Another Challenge

Also by the time I was in college, she was suffering from congestive heart failure. Doctors told her she’d make it a few months when they first diagnosed her. They lived only blocks from Memorial Southwest Hospital so she could get there fast when it got worse. I don’t know how many times we gathered there, but she lived about six years after her diagnosis. That was also the kind of lady she was. Always the lady, but you did not tell her what she would or would not do.

She had been a quiet, graceful fighter all her life from what I understand. She raised four sons and a daughter, and grieved the loss of another daughter at a time when losing a baby was far too common. She followed Granddad around the country—Texas, Louisiana, Colorado, Georgia, Utah, Arizona, back to Texas. I think that’s all, but I might have missed some. Uncle Don described the little white cabin they lived in on the ranch in Colorado. Let’s just say she gets a multitude of brownie points for staying there more than one night. They had rough spots like that and reusing Bounce dryer sheets because they had so little money, and highs of the huge home on the mountainside in Ogden, UT, and the property in Scottsdale with its pool and guest house. Wherever she was, she made she not only made the best of it, but she made it good for everyone around her.

Sometimes I would pick up Kentucky Fried Chicken or James Coney Island and bring it to the house for her and Granddad. She needed a wheelchair to go out because her breathing was so strained that she couldn’t walk more than a few feet without needing to rest. However, she liked to go to cafeterias, and we met them at Luby’s regularly. That gave me another chance to tease her because ever one to use proper table manners, she laid the cloth napkin in her lap. When we were done, we would wheel her out the door. One problem. Because she didn’t walk away from the table, we also took the napkin. Repeatedly. She was mortified. I still hassled her about having enough Luby’s napkins for everyone at Sunday dinner.

Driving Miss Madlyn

I was fortunate to have lots of one-on-one time with her, especially in her last few years. She couldn’t stay by herself because of her health, so when Granddad went to Utah for Uncle Tim’s wedding, I stayed with her.  We had a lovely girls’ weekend.

When Driving Miss Daisy came out, she wanted to see it. Granddad wasn’t big on going to movies, especially something like that, so she asked if I would take her. I was quite happy to oblige. When I picked her up, I reached for the wheelchair to take it to the car, but she told me we were not taking it. I gave her a look, asked if she was sure, and stopped talking. Teasing her was one thing. Crossing her was another. We went to Westwood Mall, the best nearby location. The theater wasn’t too far, but she was still going to have to walk some. I should not have doubted her.

I helped her out at the curb, escorted her to a bench nearby and parked in a handicapped space using her tag. There were plenty available, and I did not want to leave her alone any longer than I had to. She took my arm, and we started the journey to the doors. We paused a couple of times with her just holding my arm; she sat down on another bench, but we made it inside, where after a couple more stops to sit and rest to catch her breath, we reached the theater.

The walk would have taken me maybe five minutes from a parking spot farther away. I don’t remember how long it took, but I’d guess 20-30 minutes.  She never let on the physical stress she felt other than a change in pressure on my arm when she needed to stop. If she was ever unsure about making it in, she didn’t let on about that either. I think she had just decided she was going to do this with me and that was that. As with most everything else she did, she set her sights on where she was going and never changed her focus. After she died, it was quite a while before I could watch the movie again. When I tried it, I had new eyes with age and experience. It was bittersweet and still is—I watched it a few weeks ago—but I also smile as I see some of Grandmother in Miss Daisy, and I think about what a great day she and I had together.  

Just Like Her

When Driving Miss Daisy was on recently, I told the story about Grandmother to my Words With Friends friend. He said, “So that’s where you get it from.” No idea what he’s talking about; however, there’s something to be said for her approach to life as we deal with Dad. We have no choice about where we are, only how we react to it and work within it. We can do it with grace or pitch conniption fits anytime something goes wrong, which will do nothing to improve the situation and wear us out. We can adapt to his changes with determination or give up. Neither will change the outcome itself. He will not get better, and I know where the worse is going, but maybe it will lessen some of the bumps. I don’t have an exact focus, and I’m not sure what it should be or how to find it. However, as we care for him, we can come together, work together, ask for and accept help, find some humor, and make some memories for us.  Hopefully, none of that will include pilfering napkins (or anything else).

Holy Thursday With Dad

For the Holy Thursday service last month, my church had a Living Last Supper, a live rendition of Da Vinci’s painting. Mom and Dad often come to special programs with me, so I told Mom about the services that week. I knew the Thursday service was dicey because she is uncomfortable going to the front of the church for communion instead of taking it seated. I can understand that. It took me a little while to get used to it when I started attending a Methodist church during college. It turned out she had a meeting that night, so I offered to take Dad with me.

We went to dinner first, just a little burger place a few minutes from home. I never know how dinner—or anything else—is going to work with him since I don’t know what will actually go wrong or that he will interpret as going wrong and how he will react to it. We split a burger. It was cooked right. The fries were not as crisp as we like, but he didn’t seem to notice. The onion rings were excellent, and we did not fight over who got the last one (me!).

Throughout dinner, I was debating on when to make a pit stop. This is one of the last issues I thought I’d face with my dad, at least at our ages. Stay with me here. No, he doesn’t need help in the bathroom yet, but we have a bit of a timing problem if there’s only one woman along, and he finishes first because Mom or I might not come out first. By the time he’s done, he may or may not remember that one of us will be waiting for him outside the restrooms. So far, he has not wandered off, but I always worry that he will. Add to the mix that at church, the men’s room is across the foyer—out of sight almost because of the architecture—from the women’s, and he is not familiar with the building although he's been there many times. I still like the restrooms there better than at the restaurant, so I decided to wait to get there and prayed as I drove that someone would be able to help me.

I pointed Dad toward his door, and as I turned to walk to mine, I saw a friend, also Terry, sitting and talking with friends within sight of the restroom. I explained the situation to him, identified Dad, and asked him to snag him if I wasn’t out yet. He said, “No problem. There’s also about ten ‘disciples’ in there right now. No telling what’s going on. I’ll watch for him and catch him if he comes out.” This was one of those situations where I had thought how ridiculous it was to pray for something as small, not to mention weird, as someone to take care of Dad while I was indisposed, but what a great answer God gave. It was even better when I thanked Terry the next time I saw him, and he told me that anytime I needed someone to watch after Dad, just let him know. And he meant it. That kind of support is invaluable.   

We picked a seat near the front of the worship center so we could see well. I could handle needing to lean a little to see or just have a slightly obstructed view, but that’s another of those little pieces that I don’t know how Dad will react to it. He was thoroughly engaged, as was I, as the men held frozen poses—like the live mannequins do at stores—for more than thirty minutes other than the couple of minutes as each spoke. It was amazing. Most of them never moved a muscle we saw. Also amazing was that as we drove home and talked about it, he remembered how they had stayed still.

I was enjoying the performance, but in the back of my mind was how communion was going to be. Dad grew up Methodist, so I knew he was used to the style, but I wasn’t sure how he would react if a woman served the bread or cup. I was also prepared to stay seated if he preferred not to go. When the usher came to our row, I looked at him, and he rose, so I led the way. Rather than whisper instructions to him, I just turned slightly so he could see how I cupped my hands to take the bread, and then I waited for him to look before I dipped mine in the cup. He had zero problem. Not even with the lady who had the bread.

When there’s room at the communion rail, I usually go kneel to pray. It was strange when I started doing it twenty-five years ago because I had always taken communion while seated. At first, I knelt because everyone else was, but soon I enjoyed doing it. I hadn’t discussed it with Dad earlier since he wouldn’t have remembered by the time we got in the situation, so as we stepped away from those serving communion, I simply motioned to the rail. He understood exactly what I meant, and we knelt together. I’ve shared communion with him hundreds of times and prayed thousands of times, but that was the first time I have ever knelt beside him and prayed. The wave of emotion was not something I had anticipated and was almost a distraction from why we were there. It wasn’t any sort of bonding, at least that’s not how I would label it, and yet it is something that will stay with me forever. In those minutes of communing with God, who never changes, my dad, who is changing sometimes daily, was totally normal.

We talked about the performance a little as we headed to his house, and then we had root beer floats with Dad’s Old Fashioned Root Beer (in Coca-Cola glasses, no less). I forget how good that brand is, which is probably best, as I would drink far too much of it. We yacked about nothing in particular as we enjoyed the floats at the kitchen table. Then he got a bit jealous as I slurped the little bit of mine that remained through my straw, as loudly as I could, of course. I told him he could have a straw, but no, he had declined. And slurped the last of the drops with enough suction to make my head swim. It was worth it when he made a pathetic face and then laughed.  

Mom and I got one more gift out of the evening. I had gone home shortly before she was due back. When she came in, Dad was watching television, but she asked how the program had been. Instead of asking her, “What program?” he said, “It was good.” She told me that when I saw them Friday night, and I was stunned. Then, she said that he had brought up the program that morning and told her a little about it. He does not remember recent events like that. I had no words. I still don’t. But it makes me smile when I think of it.  

When Comics Aren’t So Funny

When I was little, Dad would read the Sunday comics from the Houston Post to me after church. “Peanuts” was on the front page like it still is today, except it’s in the Chronicle instead. I liked that one, “Snuffy Smith,” “Dennis the Menace,” “B.C.” and “The Wizard of Id.” By elementary school, I might not have understood everything, but I was reading them myself, and somewhere around middle school I was reading the daily comics as well.

Dad and I have maintained that love for the comics. When Dad was out at sea, we would save the section of the paper with the comics and the Jumble puzzle, and he would dig through them when he returned. Later, sometimes one would call and ask the other, “Did you see _____ today?” And the other would either laugh at the memory or head for the paper to find it. Dad collects business cards, and when he would see a comic strip that reminded him of someone, he would cut it out and put it into a binder with the person’s business card. He has several about teachers with mine. When my niece was young, she liked the “Garfield” strip, and Dad started cutting those out and saving them for her. She’s not as interested in it now—or maybe not at all—but he still saves them for her every day.

He started putting checkmarks next to the strips as he read them. That was a few years ago when he was in the early stages of dementia. At one point, he would remember them for a while after reading them in the morning but not later in the day, so the checkmarks let him know that he had read the comics. Sometimes he would make a note next to the strip, talking back to it like he does to television programs. Next came needing the checkmarks because shortly after reading the comics, he wouldn’t remember reading them. While I haven’t asked, I suspect that now after he has read two or three past a comic, he doesn’t remember the earlier one. Throughout those changes, he did understand what he read and smiled or laughed when appropriate.

I noticed a year or so ago that on some comics he would put a question mark. I didn’t think it was that weird because I don’t get some of them. Plus, he was differentiating between the ones he understood and the ones he did not, which showed he could still analyze.

To save a little money, I get hard copies of the paper only part of the week and read the other days’ papers online. I still prefer the hardcopy, so Mom and Dad will offer me the papers that I don’t get if I see them on those days. It struck me this week how many question marks Dad puts now. On the page of colored comics from Monday’s paper, fifteen of the twenty-one strips have checkmarks. I know it’s not that many every day—Tuesday’s has nine— yet more than a few is still strange to me. Not the dad I know, or knew. It was clear why he didn’t get some of them such as one referencing Harry Potter or one that had some Spanish phrases in it or the new word “adulting,” but I was amazed at others.

In “Peanuts,” Dad didn’t catch the phrase “‘in’ expressions,” as in “All systems are go!” when astronaut Snoopy is preparing to blast off. “F Minus” is a single panel with one man playing miniature golf, his golf cart behind him, and a worker telling him, “Sir, I’m going to have to tell you again that personal carts are not allowed here at Li’l Putt-Putt.” That miniature golf courses don’t have carts escaped him. A few times I’ve tried explaining comics to him, either from the paper or one I found on Facebook, and even with the explanation he doesn’t understand.

Thankfully, at this point, he does still get many of them, often without any explanation, and he’ll range from a smile to a chuckle to bursting out laughing when he thinks it’s funny. His laugh hasn’t changed. It’s still infectious. 

Regularly, when I am over, he will come into the kitchen and show me one from that day that he thought was especially funny or pertinent. He leaves the page on the table at his place with a special mark by it. Then, when he comes into the kitchen because he hears my voice, he sees the paper and can remember to share it. A few times he’s given me a comic strip he cut out that reminded him of me, like the one with the woman telling her dog, “Listen, you can’t be a group therapy dog if you keep chewing the talking stick.” He put a question mark by it, but he made the connection between it and the therapy work I do with my dogs. And yes, they will chew the talking stick as well as sneak a bite of a snack or swipe tennis balls from the walkers given half a chance.

I don’t know what Courtney does with the “Garfield” strips, if she even reads them. I’m trying to pare down what I keep, and when there are question marks, it makes the comic bittersweet. But I can cut that off, and they don’t take up much space in the box with his letters from when he was sailing, and one day it will be a good reminder of the happy normal that we had.