I'm entering my final 100 days of writing in this blog, which means in 87 days Mom will have been gone for one year.
I think I'm shrinking. I'm an inch-and-a-half shorter today than I was 20 years ago. I realize that women lose bone density as they age, and maybe since I had a hysterectomy almost seven years ago, my bones are starting to condense. I've got to remember to take my Calcium daily. I set it on the desk in my office yesterday hoping that by seeing it there I would remember to take it. I did, but now that it's the weekend I'll need another reminder. Excuse me, I'm going to take it now.
Okay, I'm back. This idea of women shrinking as we age has been on my mind a lot lately. Mom was a petite woman standing only 5'3. My daughters gauged their own growth by how close they were to passing Grandma or by how much taller they were than Grandma. Kenzie would always give her a hug and say, "You're so little, and you're so cute." Now she's saying that to me. Doug commented to me the other day, "You seem to be channelling your mother." This was after he'd commented on the fact that I'm shrinking. He also said I'm starting to call Kea (our Shi'tzu) the same way Mom called for her. I don't know..."channelling" makes it sound like I'm trying to communicate w/ her from beyond the grave like some psychic or medium. I know that's not what he meant. I'm just trying to keep her close in my heart and thoughts, and sometimes that spills out my mouth and actions.
Grandma Ruth continues to hang on. She's back in the nursing home after several days in the hospital for fluid around her heart. I've known Grandma Ruth for over 18 years now, ever since I married her grandson. When I first met her she was a tall, proud octogenarian. I think she probably stood close to 5'10". With that height came a pride and confidence from having raised three children, being a bookkeeper at the town bank, and surviving the death of one child, a husband, and several grandchildren. Grandma has been a widow for over 30 years. I've never seen her angry or heard her speak an unkind word. Even when visiting her in the hospital two days ago, I was shocked to not hear any complaints. My own paternal grandmother lived to be 94, but for her it was shear meanness and stubbornness that kept her around so long. That woman could complain about every ache and pain in her body and every person in her life she felt was a disappointment. I was also shocked two days ago at seeing how tiny Grandma Ruth has become. I touched her shoulder and thought I was touching a spindle. Lying on her back w/ only her head showing above the covers, she looked like a hobbit, a happy hobbit with a sweet secret. Lately she has had to subdue her pride by allowing the nurses to lift her onto the toilet using a harness. I saw this contraption in the hallway outside her room and was reminded of the scene in Jurassic Park when they lower the goat into the dinosaur paddock. This hospital harness has the same degrading effect.
I know that pride is considered a sin, but I think being proud keeps us alive. Without pride we allow anyone to do anything to us, and it's the one thing that mortals cannot take from us unless we surrender it. I'm afraid of shrinking into nothingness and being too proud to do something about it. Maybe that was Grandma's sweet secret: she's leaving this world the way she entered it, small and wrinkly.
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