Grandma and her “boys”, Bill and John
A lot of people at my dad’s residence remarked about “what good children” we were to our father. At least one of us visited him at least once a week from the time he moved to California (with Laura taking on the lion’s share of responsibilities for his care), and in the last month and a half of his life, one of us was with him for an extended period every single day. Number of regrets any of us has about going out of our way to spend that time: Zero.
But I need to say, we learned the value of caring for our elders at a young age. I was very young when my father’s father died, and after that we visited my Grandma Newton at least once a year, or she visited us. She was absolutely our favorite grandma, always baking something or giving us treats or otherwise fussing over us. Even my maternal cousins who had no blood relation to her were embraced wholeheartedly as her grandkids.
My grandmother fell and broke her hip in 1980, when I was 13. My dad and his brother made the decision that my grandmother should come and live with my family in Hawaii.
It was a huge adjustment for her, one I didn’t fully grasp as a self-centered 13 year-old. She was a lovely, friendly woman who was lonely when everyone was gone all day at school or at work. When I got home from school she would pepper me with questions. “How was your day? How are you doing in school? Do you have a boyfriend? You’re such a lovely girl, why don’t you have a boyfriend?” You know, all the questions a teenager loves to answer. I’m afraid I wasn’t as kind to her as I could have been.
But my parents were constant in their loving care. Imagine this: my mother, who worked full time as a nurse on the skilled nursing floor of St. Francis Hospital would go to work, come home, and then do all the caretaking she did at work for my grandmother. My father made sure we knew that caring for my grandmother was never a question. It’s just what we do.
Ultimately, though, she needed more care than my parents were able to give her in their “free” hours. We moved her first to a Board and Care home in Honolulu, and eventually to a nursing home. All the while, my parents were a constant in her life. I spent many a weekend day going to see Grandma, bringing her fresh fruit, gently redirecting her from her kinda racist comments about her Asian roommates (she truly didn’t know that wasn’t okay), and taking her out for strawberry ice cream, her last and and fondest “vice”.
I always knew my mother was very fond of her mother-in-law. It wasn’t until after I gave birth to Celeste that I learned why. My parents came to stay with us in the days before and weeks after Celeste was born. I didn’t know until later what an amazing gift and privilege this was. We loved my parents, and they loved us back! We hardly ever got on each others’ nerves! They were *actually helpful*! (Dude, my Dad CLEANED MY OVEN. I can’t even list the zillions of things my Mom did.)
One day soon after Celeste was born, my Mom and I took her for a walk in her stroller. My Mom started telling me stories about when she was a first-time Mom, and how incredibly warm and supportive my Grandma Newton had been. (I can only imagine how over-the-moon happy she was about her FIRST GRANDSON!) She told me stories of the little and big kindnesses her mother-in-law had heaped on her. Grandma Newton truly thought of my Mom as a daughter.
Those couple weeks, and that conversation in particular, are a gift I will carry with me always. I hadn’t felt that close to my mother in many many years, and talking about my grandmother made me feel connected with her for the first time since she died.
Fast forward ten years, and my mother’s health had declined greatly. She and my father moved to California permanently to be closer to their daughters. In the following two years, my father was devoted to my mother. We had a difficult time finding a facility that would let him live with her when she needed around the clock memory care, but we made it happen. He took her to meals, made sure she ate, made sure she was taken care of in the rare times he would go out on his own. When she passed, he was holding her hand.
In his final weeks, I whispered these memories to my father. The last time I saw him, I tearfully told him the story of his mother’s kindness to his wife, and what that story meant to me. Though he was mostly unresponsive, his eyes shifted back and forth behind their lids, and his eyebrows raised. I knew he heard me.
