Nonfiction - Personal Essay - Memory
The second nonfiction assignment for my 12th grade creative writing class, to write a memory. This is for my Grandma Kay, I will always love you.
***
Ping, ping, ping, ping. Another door is opened, leading to another endless hallway. It was the type of place you could just get lost in, walking down endless identical looking corridors, never quite sure where you’ll end up. I’m sure that now I could find my way around, but as a young child it always seemed so big and scary. I never knew where I was going, or where it would lead to. I just followed.
As the nurse continues to lead us on our way, I grip onto my mother’s hand even tighter, not ever wanting to let go. I feel the warmth of her hand against mine, the unspoken reassurance that everything is going to be okay. Sharing my mother’s acute sense of smell, I refrain from complaining about the overwhelming odor of medicine, urine, and hand sanitizer that is surrounding me, and is sure to give me a headache. I force myself to smile at the old woman who waves at me in the hallway and watch as yet another wheelchair rolls by.
Finally, after what seems like hours of endless roaming, we get there. I see my Grandma Kay in her wheelchair, the restraints carefully holding her up. Much to our dismay, they have cut her hair. Again. To be honest, I didn’t know they could get it much shorter than last time. The sound machine echoes in the background, a repeat of crashing waves. Everyone says that’s her favorite, but I haven’t known her long enough to know if that’s true or not.
There are pictures covering the countertop next to a new bouquet of flowers, a failed attempt to make it feel more homely inside the cold, isolated room. The closet is open, and inside I can see all of the fancy clothes my aunt as bought for my grandma. We all know it is useless, and the clothes will all be ruined soon enough, but she always insists on buying them anyway.
My mother speaks to my grandma as I stand by just looking at them. They say she won’t remember us, she can’t hear what we are saying, and she doesn’t know what any of it means. She is hopeless, sitting there in her chair, unable to even sit up straight on her own. She has no way of knowing how many people there are that love her and miss her and desperately want her back to her full functioning self, before the Alzheimer’s took over. Even though they say she doesn’t understand, when I show my grandma the card I made her and excitedly tell her all about the things I have been doing lately, I swear I can see her eyes shine just a little bit brighter. Right then, in that moment, I want to believe that maybe, just maybe, she really does know.
I am too afraid to hug her, she looks too small and fragile to be able to handle it. My mom and I are out of words to say. The silence is filled with the continuous sounds of the ocean behind us, and I can’t tell whether I find it more soothing or unnerving. I know we both wish we could go back in time, to when visiting Grandma meant a trip to the park, not a trip to the nursing home. As young as I am, even I know that soon the trip to the cemetery on the way home won’t be just to visit my Grandpa and Aunt Linda, bu.t to see my Grandma too.
We then push her around the home, chatting with her as if she could jump into the conversation at any minute even though we know it will forever be a one sided conversation. We help spoon feed her her smooshed up food in an assortment of disgusting shades of green and brown, and get yelled at for trying to serve her the wrong type of water. We are no longer allowed to take her for a walk outside in the gardens, so instead we stay inside the bland white halls, our noses slowly getting used to the nursing home smell and savoring every precious moment we have with her.
At the end of the day we leave with the usual feeling of sadness, the pings echoing behind us as we exit each long, similar looking corridor. When we finally make it outside, our lungs instantly fill up with fresh air as we make our way back to the car, none of us knowing how many more of these trips to visit Grandma Kay we have left.
As the nurse continues to lead us on our way, I grip onto my mother’s hand even tighter, not ever wanting to let go. I feel the warmth of her hand against mine, the unspoken reassurance that everything is going to be okay. Sharing my mother’s acute sense of smell, I refrain from complaining about the overwhelming odor of medicine, urine, and hand sanitizer that is surrounding me, and is sure to give me a headache. I force myself to smile at the old woman who waves at me in the hallway and watch as yet another wheelchair rolls by.
Finally, after what seems like hours of endless roaming, we get there. I see my Grandma Kay in her wheelchair, the restraints carefully holding her up. Much to our dismay, they have cut her hair. Again. To be honest, I didn’t know they could get it much shorter than last time. The sound machine echoes in the background, a repeat of crashing waves. Everyone says that’s her favorite, but I haven’t known her long enough to know if that’s true or not.
There are pictures covering the countertop next to a new bouquet of flowers, a failed attempt to make it feel more homely inside the cold, isolated room. The closet is open, and inside I can see all of the fancy clothes my aunt as bought for my grandma. We all know it is useless, and the clothes will all be ruined soon enough, but she always insists on buying them anyway.
My mother speaks to my grandma as I stand by just looking at them. They say she won’t remember us, she can’t hear what we are saying, and she doesn’t know what any of it means. She is hopeless, sitting there in her chair, unable to even sit up straight on her own. She has no way of knowing how many people there are that love her and miss her and desperately want her back to her full functioning self, before the Alzheimer’s took over. Even though they say she doesn’t understand, when I show my grandma the card I made her and excitedly tell her all about the things I have been doing lately, I swear I can see her eyes shine just a little bit brighter. Right then, in that moment, I want to believe that maybe, just maybe, she really does know.
I am too afraid to hug her, she looks too small and fragile to be able to handle it. My mom and I are out of words to say. The silence is filled with the continuous sounds of the ocean behind us, and I can’t tell whether I find it more soothing or unnerving. I know we both wish we could go back in time, to when visiting Grandma meant a trip to the park, not a trip to the nursing home. As young as I am, even I know that soon the trip to the cemetery on the way home won’t be just to visit my Grandpa and Aunt Linda, bu.t to see my Grandma too.
We then push her around the home, chatting with her as if she could jump into the conversation at any minute even though we know it will forever be a one sided conversation. We help spoon feed her her smooshed up food in an assortment of disgusting shades of green and brown, and get yelled at for trying to serve her the wrong type of water. We are no longer allowed to take her for a walk outside in the gardens, so instead we stay inside the bland white halls, our noses slowly getting used to the nursing home smell and savoring every precious moment we have with her.
At the end of the day we leave with the usual feeling of sadness, the pings echoing behind us as we exit each long, similar looking corridor. When we finally make it outside, our lungs instantly fill up with fresh air as we make our way back to the car, none of us knowing how many more of these trips to visit Grandma Kay we have left.
