It's been a busy three years, life-cycle wise. I got pregnant, then miscarried; Karoly died; I got pregnant with Matteas; Aaron's maternal grandpa died; my maternal grandpa died; Matteas was born. And now, Aaron's paternal grandpa is slipping away from pneumonia and a tired heart. The doctor said if we wanted to say goodbye we should do it sooner rather than later, so yesterday Briana and Shane took the kids and Aaron and I drove up to Mt. Vernon to be with Grandpa Caseri.
Grandpa Caseri is actually Aaron's step-grandfather. He married Aaron's grandma, Doris, when he was 51. It was a second marriage for both of them, each having been previously widowed. They recently celebrated their 38th wedding anniversary. The first time I met Aaron's grandparents was at Thanksgiving dinner. I was three months pregnant with Jack and a little apprehensive about meeting Aaron's extended family as the pregnant girlfriend, but everyone was very kind and when Aaron introduced me to Mr. Caseri he said, "You can call me 'grandpa.'"
When we walked into his hospital room last night he perked up visibly, smiled and thanked us for coming. Grandma Caseri sat in a wheelchair next to her husband's bed, smiling vacantly. She has pretty severe dementia and often has trouble remembering people. She's not so steady on her feet anymore(thus the wheelchair for the long hospital halls) and is completely dependent on her husband, who she calls Bobby and who is now dying slowly but surely in front of her unbelieving eyes. It was so sad to watch her; you can tell that every few minutes she notices her surroundings and wonders why she's not at home, wonders why her husband is lying in a hospital bed with a tube in his nose and why he won't get up and come home with her. She asks him to come home every few minutes.
"Bobby," she demands, "get up out of that bed and come home with me." He has become so vital to her that she cannot possibly conceive of ever being without him, pneumonia be damned.
"I'll come home tomorrow Doris," he replies patiently. He's not lying. He wants to die at home, so arrangements have been made to have a hospital bed set up in the living room so he can be comfortable in his last days. He doesn't tell her he's coming home to die; he knows it won't do any good, because in five minutes she won't remember. She lives in a perpetual present, all her short-term memories slipping away from her and the only constant in her life is the familiar comfort of her husband. He follows her around the house as she totters on uncertain feet, her hand on his arm always so she doesn't fall. He bathes her, dresses her, puts her to bed, remembers things for her. It's been long enough that she knows who I am now, but I can tell walking into the hospital room that she doesn't know what we're all doing there. She is so afraid of Bobby dying that she won't let him fall asleep, something he tries to do occasionally until she barks at him. His eyes begin to close slowly, but he's not dying yet, just dozing.
"Bobby!" she scolds, and he jerks awake.
"What is it Doris?" His voice is soft and gentle, not a hint of reproach.
"You keep your eyes open, you hear?"
"It's alright if he falls asleep Grandma, he'll still be here," I offer, hoping to soothe her into allowing him a small nap.
"He'd better not sleep while I'm here. Bobby, are you ready to come home with me now?" she nags.
"I'd like to Doris, but I have to stay here tonight; I'll be home tomorrow afternoon." His voice is still soft and gentle; they have this exchange several more times before Aaron's dad takes her home for the night.
While we visited, I worked on the blanket in the picture at the beginning of this post. I've been working on it for over three years, casting on the first stitches while I was pregnant with the baby we lost. I put the blanket away for a while after that, and the following month Karoly died. A month after that I got pregnant again, and I brought the knitting out again. Two months later, my mother's dad lay dying in the hospital and I spent long hours sitting by his bed while the blanket grew in my lap, the sound of my clicking needles mingled with hospital machines and Grandpa Ken's quiet breathing.
I think the blanket was comforting to Grandma. Knitting is something from so long ago that she can remember; she pointed to my work and said she used to do a lot of that stuff. I asked her if she wanted to feel it; I was sitting next to her so I draped a piece of the blanket across her tiny old lady lap. She gripped it with her wrinkled hands and sighed appreciatively, then complimented me on my time investment. She did this several times, since conversations with her tend to repeat themselves on a ten-minute loop. She kept asking me who the blanket was for, and I kept telling her I don't know. I intended it for two different babies, first one who died and then one who outgrew the need for a baby blanket before I could finish it. It even moved with us from one house to another, spending long periods packed away in closets and boxes. The baby it will eventually keep warm is still just an idea, a future possibility. As it grew stitch by stitch last night, I realized what day it was: Valentine's Day.
Valentine's Day has always been tricky for us; we usually manage to get into a fight a few days prior and ruin any chance of a good time. We weren't fighting yesterday, and for the most part I'd forgotten what day it was until it occurred to me that it would be the last Valentine's Day that Grandma and Grandpa Caseri would have together. It was amazing to see how much they still love each other after 38 years. They still flirt, still make racy comments to each other(seriously, I can't repeat some of them in a public forum), still find the other person totally essential to their own happiness. It was clear from watching Grandpa that he's not afraid of dying, but he is afraid of what will happen to his wife after he's gone. There's plenty of family to care for her, but no one will be able to replace her husband. He is her entire point of reference, the only thing that makes any sense to her mind which cannot grasp the passage of time or form new memories. His arm under her hand, his body next to her in bed, his voice responding whenever she calls out, his daily presence in her life is the whole of her existence.
As Aaron and I made the long drive home, we agreed that this had been our best Valentine's Day so far. There were no flowers, no chocolates, no cards, no fanfare; but there had been witness to deep love between two people, a memory that will be woven into the blanket that was in my lap that night and will some day be wrapped around a baby Grandpa Caseri will never meet.
Monday, February 15, 2010
A Matter of Life and Death
It's been a busy three years, life-cycle wise. I got pregnant, then miscarried; Karoly died; I got pregnant with Matteas; Aaron's maternal grandpa died; my maternal grandpa died; Matteas was born. And now, Aaron's paternal grandpa is slipping away from pneumonia and a tired heart. The doctor said if we wanted to say goodbye we should do it sooner rather than later, so yesterday Briana and Shane took the kids and Aaron and I drove up to Mt. Vernon to be with Grandpa Caseri.
Grandpa Caseri is actually Aaron's step-grandfather. He married Aaron's grandma, Doris, when he was 51. It was a second marriage for both of them, each having been previously widowed. They recently celebrated their 38th wedding anniversary. The first time I met Aaron's grandparents was at Thanksgiving dinner. I was three months pregnant with Jack and a little apprehensive about meeting Aaron's extended family as the pregnant girlfriend, but everyone was very kind and when Aaron introduced me to Mr. Caseri he said, "You can call me 'grandpa.'"
When we walked into his hospital room last night he perked up visibly, smiled and thanked us for coming. Grandma Caseri sat in a wheelchair next to her husband's bed, smiling vacantly. She has pretty severe dementia and often has trouble remembering people. She's not so steady on her feet anymore(thus the wheelchair for the long hospital halls) and is completely dependent on her husband, who she calls Bobby and who is now dying slowly but surely in front of her unbelieving eyes. It was so sad to watch her; you can tell that every few minutes she notices her surroundings and wonders why she's not at home, wonders why her husband is lying in a hospital bed with a tube in his nose and why he won't get up and come home with her. She asks him to come home every few minutes.
"Bobby," she demands, "get up out of that bed and come home with me." He has become so vital to her that she cannot possibly conceive of ever being without him, pneumonia be damned.
"I'll come home tomorrow Doris," he replies patiently. He's not lying. He wants to die at home, so arrangements have been made to have a hospital bed set up in the living room so he can be comfortable in his last days. He doesn't tell her he's coming home to die; he knows it won't do any good, because in five minutes she won't remember. She lives in a perpetual present, all her short-term memories slipping away from her and the only constant in her life is the familiar comfort of her husband. He follows her around the house as she totters on uncertain feet, her hand on his arm always so she doesn't fall. He bathes her, dresses her, puts her to bed, remembers things for her. It's been long enough that she knows who I am now, but I can tell walking into the hospital room that she doesn't know what we're all doing there. She is so afraid of Bobby dying that she won't let him fall asleep, something he tries to do occasionally until she barks at him. His eyes begin to close slowly, but he's not dying yet, just dozing.
"Bobby!" she scolds, and he jerks awake.
"What is it Doris?" His voice is soft and gentle, not a hint of reproach.
"You keep your eyes open, you hear?"
"It's alright if he falls asleep Grandma, he'll still be here," I offer, hoping to soothe her into allowing him a small nap.
"He'd better not sleep while I'm here. Bobby, are you ready to come home with me now?" she nags.
"I'd like to Doris, but I have to stay here tonight; I'll be home tomorrow afternoon." His voice is still soft and gentle; they have this exchange several more times before Aaron's dad takes her home for the night.
While we visited, I worked on the blanket in the picture at the beginning of this post. I've been working on it for over three years, casting on the first stitches while I was pregnant with the baby we lost. I put the blanket away for a while after that, and the following month Karoly died. A month after that I got pregnant again, and I brought the knitting out again. Two months later, my mother's dad lay dying in the hospital and I spent long hours sitting by his bed while the blanket grew in my lap, the sound of my clicking needles mingled with hospital machines and Grandpa Ken's quiet breathing.
I think the blanket was comforting to Grandma. Knitting is something from so long ago that she can remember; she pointed to my work and said she used to do a lot of that stuff. I asked her if she wanted to feel it; I was sitting next to her so I draped a piece of the blanket across her tiny old lady lap. She gripped it with her wrinkled hands and sighed appreciatively, then complimented me on my time investment. She did this several times, since conversations with her tend to repeat themselves on a ten-minute loop. She kept asking me who the blanket was for, and I kept telling her I don't know. I intended it for two different babies, first one who died and then one who outgrew the need for a baby blanket before I could finish it. It even moved with us from one house to another, spending long periods packed away in closets and boxes. The baby it will eventually keep warm is still just an idea, a future possibility. As it grew stitch by stitch last night, I realized what day it was: Valentine's Day.
Valentine's Day has always been tricky for us; we usually manage to get into a fight a few days prior and ruin any chance of a good time. We weren't fighting yesterday, and for the most part I'd forgotten what day it was until it occurred to me that it would be the last Valentine's Day that Grandma and Grandpa Caseri would have together. It was amazing to see how much they still love each other after 38 years. They still flirt, still make racy comments to each other(seriously, I can't repeat some of them in a public forum), still find the other person totally essential to their own happiness. It was clear from watching Grandpa that he's not afraid of dying, but he is afraid of what will happen to his wife after he's gone. There's plenty of family to care for her, but no one will be able to replace her husband. He is her entire point of reference, the only thing that makes any sense to her mind which cannot grasp the passage of time or form new memories. His arm under her hand, his body next to her in bed, his voice responding whenever she calls out, his daily presence in her life is the whole of her existence.
As Aaron and I made the long drive home, we agreed that this had been our best Valentine's Day so far. There were no flowers, no chocolates, no cards, no fanfare; but there had been witness to deep love between two people, a memory that will be woven into the blanket that was in my lap that night and will some day be wrapped around a baby Grandpa Caseri will never meet.
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2 comments:
That's a pretty good Valentine's Day. I like the color of the blanket. Are you just doing a garter stitch? Kind of looks like fun.
This is so sad...yet so refreshing at the same time. It's like the quote I added to my facebook page from Fr. Joseph, "If you really fall in love with God, you're going to feel pain" Seems like the same thing goes for falling in love with your spouse. Still; I want to die before Mike does. (Selfish, I know) but I just can't imagine my heart breaking like that...and I've been married less than two years.
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