Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul (19 page)
Mandy taught me a valuable lesson: that I could not give my mother her sight back, or the life she once had. I had to stop feeling guilty and focusing on what I couldn't give her but rather on what I could . . . time and the colorful sharing that comes from a love that is not blinded.
Nancy V. Bennett
Y
ou cannot teach children to take care of themselves
unless you let them try. They will make
mistakes; and out of these mistakes comes
wisdom.
Henry Ward Beecher
“Nana! Help! I'm falling!” and suddenly the little girl with her new roller blades had fallen on the sidewalk for the one hundredth time.
“I can't do it!” the little girl cried as a tear rolled down her cheek.
“Don't worry. I'm here to catch you,” whispered Nana as she wiped the tear away. “Remember, when it rains, it rains pennies from heaven!” Nana hugged the girl and started to hum the song.
From the time the girl was six weeks old, Nana took care of her in every way. She fed, rocked and played with the girl. She never seemed to mind when the little girl smelled dirty. She was always there with open arms when the little girl was wobbly or unsure of herself. She smiled and encouraged her when the little girl couldn't talk well and told her to keep practicing.
“You can do anything you want to do. Just put your mind to it,” Nana would say to her.
Nana taught the little girl to play the piano. In Nana's shaky handwriting, she would write songs for the little girl to play on the piano. Every Christmas they saw
The
Nutcracker
together. Nana would cheer and clap when the little girl would try to twirl and dance like the ballerinas.
“Remember, never give up. Just feel the music in here,” and she would point to her heart. The little girl understood, because when she was with Nana she felt she could be and do almost anything.
During this time the little girl didn't notice how Nana's hands and head shook for no reason at all. She didn't notice, and she didn't care. Nana loved her and was her very best friend.
Soon the little girl went off to school. She got new friends and became busy with all the things school brings. She had less and less time to spend with Nana. Nana's shaking got much worse, and soon the girl felt strange being with her. The little girl found out that Nana had a disease called Parkinson's, which is a disease that takes over a person's body. This disease forced Nana to move to a nursing home to be taken care of.
One day the girl went to visit Nana. Everything about the nursing home gave the girl a strange and uncomfortable feeling. She noticed the small, bare room. She noticed that Nana didn't smell as good as she used to. The girl heard Nana's teacup make a clinking noise against the plate as her Nana slowly took a sip. The girl could hardly watch as Nana got up and slowly, oh so slowly, tried to take a tiny step. The girl felt sad as she watched her Nana fall back on her bed. And then suddenly the girl saw a picture in her mind.
The girl remembered how Nana had gently encouraged her when she was learning how to try her new roller blades. She remembered how Nana would hug her and smile whenever the girl felt she couldn't do something. And then she realized something else Nana had given her. Nana had taught her what to do for someone who needed to feel safe, secure and loved.
The girl took her Nana by the hand and slowly helped her to her feet.
“Well, I can't walk as good as I used to. I don't feel so sure of myself,” Nana slurred.
“Don't worry, Nana, you can do it. You know, when it rains, it rains pennies from heaven.”
Emily Erickson
Ten years old
H
eaven, the treasury of everlasting joy.
William Shakespeare
My eight-year-old son, Jonathan, is an exceptionally inquisitive and cheerful child who must have an answer for every question that enters his mind. I truly admire this awe-inspiring quality in him. However, I'm stumped when I do not have an answer for him.
While tucking him into bed one night I faced the hardest question he'd posed to me up until then.
“Mommy,” he said, “where is my granny now, and what is she doing there?”
I was entirely lost for words. There was a long pause as I searched my heart and soul for an appropriate answer.
My mother-in-law had been diagnosed with lymphoma and suffered through two long years of chemotherapy and radiation. Our family, being very close, prayed together as we watched this horrible disease claim her life twenty-six months later. My son was very close to his grandmother, and her death was a great mystery to him. I always knew this time would come, but how to prepare for such a question was a mystery to me.
Granny must have been listening to the conversation between her only grandson and me because my answer to him came out as if someone was talking for me.
“Jonathan,” I began, “Granny has gone to live in heaven.” Recalling the special care and tidiness she took with her home, I added, “She is dusting the clouds and keeping them shiny white.”
After a brief thought, Jonathan smiled as if he could imagine Granny working hard in heaven, and he kissed me good night. Relieved that I had satisfied his curiosity, I let out a breath of relief. I, too, missed her, and was happy I had moved through the interrogation without tears. Jonathan fell asleep, happily as always.
The next morning he ran through the house and jumped into bed with me. “Mom!” he said, “please come and look out your window!”
I half opened my eyes and gazed at the rays of sunshine filtering into my bedroom. “Yes, Jonathan, it is going to be a beautiful day.”
Jonathan had a glow about him as he looked at me with his wide-open eyes. His face beamed like a shaft of light as he glared out the window where the sun came shining in. He said, “Granny is doing a great job up there in heaven. Just look at those clean, white, fluffy clouds!”
Denise Peebles
Y
ou must do the thing you think you cannot do.
Eleanor Roosevelt
Grieving deeply, Grandma Dunkle refused to sleep in her bedroom after Grandpa died. To everyone's surprise, her four-year-old granddaughter, Robbi, adopted the mission of reacquainting Grandma with her king-sized bed again.
“Grandma, we sleep in your bed tonight,” Robbi would say.
“No,” Grandma replied, her eyes filling with tears. “Not tonight.”
And so it went, one weekend trailing after another during sleepovers, with Robbi's plea rejected time and again.
One night, after changing into their pajamas, Robbi simply led her grandmother by the hand down the hallway to the master bedroom. Grandma paused in the doorway for a long while, tears welling up. Robbi jumped onto the bed and flipped back the covers.
“It's all right, Grandma,” she said, patting the space next to her.
Like swallowing medicine whole to avoid the bitter taste, her grandmother quickly scooted under the covers. There, they held each other snug in the middle of the huge bed, where for the first time in weeks her grandmother slept without nightmares.
Through the wisdom and sensitivity of a child, a grandmother had taken the first tentative step toward a healing journey.
Once again, as a teenager, Robbi perched on the edge of the king-sized bed, caressing her grandmother's hand. There were only a few months left. Robbi tended to her in those few precious months, massaging her with a wealth of love and tenderness. Studies and boys and other high school commitments were relegated to the back burner.
And for the second time in her life, Robbi's heart broke when her beloved grandmother was laid to rest.
But it didn't stop there.
As a young woman, Robbi, continues to make everwidening ripples within the older, more fragile generation. One can see her today as a college student working in a nursing home, changing a feeding tube, cupping an elderly resident's hand while he reminisces, reading letters for eyes that can no longer focus.
And to think it all began with a four-year-old rising above her own grief to reach out and heal her grandmother.
Jennifer Oliver
I
f becoming a grandmother was only a matter
of choice, I should advise every one of you
straight away to become one. There is no fun for
old people like it!
Hannah Whithall Smith
Until I was eight I thought Sunday was called Sunday because you had to spend it in the sun. I thought that because I spent every single Sunday outside in the garden with Nana. The zucchini plants quickly became my favorite. It was the way the tiny little delicate tendrils reached out and wrapped around the lattice, like tiny fingers holding on as tightly as they could. They seemed so helpless. I would sit on the ground and tend to them, sensing that they needed me. Nana would sit there, perched on her gardening stool, looking at the tomatoes in the same way.
“Nana,” I asked one day, “should I take off all these little yellow flowers?”
“Why would you take the flowers off?” she asked gently.
“Well, I thought they might attract the bugs and then the bugs might eat them.”
“No, darling,” she said with a little laugh, “those flowers will turn into zucchini soon.”
“Really?”
“You just wait. Soon you'll see that little things can turn into wonderful things. You should remember that.”
“Little things can turn into wonderful things,” I repeated.
“That's right,” she said.
Every Sunday I returned to the garden to check on the zucchini plants, and each time I saw more and more zucchini.
“Do you think there are so many because I take good care of the plant?” I asked.
“Yes,” Nana said, “when you look after things, good things tend to grow. You should remember that.”
“When you look after things, good things tend to grow,” I repeated.
“That's right,” she said.
I looked after the zucchini plants even better after that. I removed brown leaves, and if one of those tiny tendrils couldn't reach the lattice, I moved it a little closer. Nana did the same to the tomatoes. Then one Sunday I watched as she took the clippers and cut off one whole branch of the plant.
“Nana!” I put my hand over my mouth in shock. “What did you do that for?”
“The plant isn't strong enough to have two good branches full of tomatoes,” she said. “I had to get rid of one so the plant could make the most of the other one.”
“Oh.”
“You might have to make the same kind of choice some day,” she said.
“What do you mean, I'll have to get something chopped off?”
“No dear,” she said with a giggle, “but you might have to make some decisions, because sometimes you just can't have everything.”
“I'll remember that,” I said.
For months I returned every week to Nana's to see how my plant was doing, and each time I was proud to see more zucchini. Until one day, when they stopped appearing, and a few weeks later, there were none.
“Nana, what's wrong with my plant?” I asked tearfully. “It's not growing anymore.”
“That's what happens, darling. Things grow but then they stop. Nothing lasts forever.”
“But I was so good to it.”
“Yes,” she said, “but things end so new things can start.”
“And is there something I should remember?”
“Yes,” said Nana. “Seasons change, but for everything that ends, something new will take its place.”
“I'll remember that,” I said.
I helped tend other garden plants, but one day I admitted, “I really miss the zucchini plants.”
“I know, darling.”
“I was thinking, Nana, what if we got Poppy to make a greenhouse? Then we could have zucchini plants all year.”
“I don't know,” she said. “Maybe we should just wait for the right season.”
“But can we just try? Can I just ask Poppy? Please Nana.”
“I guess we can try,” she said.
Poppy agreed, and the next week I arrived to find a greenhouse constructed. The best part about it was the inside of the walls: there was lattice from top to bottom.
“This is the perfect home for zucchini plants,” I said.
“And tomatoes,” Nana added.
We planted zucchini on one side and tomatoes on the other. Week after week, the zucchini plants looked better and better. Nana's tomatoes were just as good. Then the fruit came, and we both realized that this greenhouse worked perfectly.
“Look, Nana,” I said. “I have a little zucchini here and hundreds of flowers. These plants are going to be the best ever.”