In those last days, she taught me dignity.
Tiny, hunched over, with piercing blue eyes, my grandmother was nonetheless excruciatingly intimidating. No one called her by first name — no one. And beyond a polite hand shake — a kiss hello to the cheek if you were her descendant — you didn’t touch her.
She would receive you in an easy chair amid a pile of books and papers. She would invite you to sit across from her and if you were her descendant, you tried to sit up straight. If you were a descendant of the female variety, you thought about crossing your ankles, and keeping your hands in your lap.
And then you talked about books, and what the river was doing, and polite news of friends. She was very careful how she asked about personal matters, because she wanted to know, but it wasn’t drawing room conversation, and — far more significantly to her – it was none of her business.
But she wanted to know.
So she would ask delicately. “The last time we spoke, you were considering graduate school,” or: “you seemed tired our last visit, I hope you’ve had some rest.” (Your last visit, you were fighting tears and regaling her with the horrors of new professional life, but she totally forgot that whole part and just remembered that you seemed fatigued.)
And if she suspected a pregnancy? Well, she so desperately wanted to know about that — but absolutely would not violate your privacy so would say, “How are you feeling?” with a sidelong look at your figure.
When the nurses in the hospital called her “Mary,” it made my skin crawl.
“OKAY MARY,” said the women banging into her room, pulling gloves on. “YOU NEED A CHANGE, HUH?”
It was the very early morning of our second day in the hospital. I had buzzed twice for help. She needed fresh sheets. She also needed medicine — her body was popping with contained pain and spasming muscles. She was whimpering.
“OKAY, HONEY,” they said. “I THINK YOU’RE DUE FOR A SHOT ANYWAY.”
And then they put their hands on her and talked about their weekend plans, while her body popped and she fought tears.
“IT’S OKAY HONEY,” they said.
And I understood that I wanted too much. I wanted them to know that the person they were calling “honey” was the only woman of her generation to pilot a sloop through the waters of the Gulf of Maine alone. That she had served her country in uniform because the only thing she hated more than war was Hitler. That the week her sister — her best friend — had died, this tiny wrinkled frame of woman had sat for exams at Radcliffe and passed with honors.
It had long been my routine to step discretely out of the room whenever an aid was helping her. Her dignity was a family commodity — she was unflappable, super-human, and that was the way we all wanted it.
So I made for the door while the women chatted and prepared to change the bed, and my grandmother writhed quietly.
”I think changing the sheets is quite painful for her,” I said. “Can we put in an order for pain medication right now so it’s ready when you’re done?”
“Sure,” said one, yanking the hospital johnny, stripping my grandmother naked, cold, wet. The woman brandished a damp washcloth in her gloved hand.
“How about you call for the medicine,” I said. “Let me do that.” The aid shrugged and handed me the washcloth and water bowl.
I looked down at my grandmother.
“Okay?” I asked. She nodded. I washed her as I had washed my babies a million times, carefully passing a warm cloth over precious, vulnerable flesh, patting her dry.
“Let’s get the bed made,” I said to the other aid. “I’m worried that she’s cold.”
“I can’t do it alone,” she replied.
“Just tell me what to do,” I moved to the head of the bed. I had seen them do this, turn her on her side, pull the sheet under her gather up the old, yank on the new, lay it flat. Someone had to hold her shoulders.
“We’re going to turn you on your side,” I said into her good ear, “and in a minute you’ll be all warm and fresh.” I put my arms on her naked shoulders, lifted when the aid said lift. My grandmother cried out. I turned her into my chest, wondering whether my presence was making it better or cosmically worse.
That was when she inhaled. Deep against me, nuzzling, just like my babies did. And it occurred to me that I was probably the first woman to hold her like that in about eighty years. I rested my cheek against her head, stroked her hair.
“Almost there,” I soothed into her good ear. “This will be hard for a minute and then we’ll have you settled and you won’t believe how good you feel.”
She whimpered, we turned her back, she cried out, and then she was settled. A fresh hospital gown, pillows tucked carefully around her, a new cottony blanket. The medication finally came, and while it took effect, I brushed her hair and someone brought soup.
And then she was propped up, eyes alert, fumbling to set a napkin into her collar. I leaned over and helped, spreading it smooth over the clean johnny.
“Thank you,” she said to me with a warm smile.
“You’re welcome,” I answered.
Her eyes went to the little stack of books on the table. At the top, a new one I had brought her, filled with anecdotes and jokes about sailing.
“Would you like me to read to you while you eat?” I asked.
“Yes, please,” she said. So I read to her, and she laughed more than once, which made me laugh (because I know nothing about sailing). We had a few more weeks together, and there were many more horrible nights. But I never again wondered whether caring for her basic needs threatened her dignity.
All she ever said to me about it was “thank you.” And that was how I learned that’s all you ever need to say.
