Memere

I'm not sure why I've been thinking about her a lot lately, maybe it's because a few of my friends have lost grandparents recently, or maybe it's because of the elderly subjects I have the fortune to work with every week. But, I'd like to tell you about my Memere. My family is pretty small, I'd say there are four of us. If you go to the farthest reaches of extended family, we might be able to get up to 20 - in both directions - but, I've always considered it to be the four of us. My mom, my dad, my memere, and me.

She's my Mom's mom, and my mom is her only child. I, in turn, am her only grandchild. For as far back as I can remember, she was there for all the important things - holidays, birthdays, school events, dance recitals. Yet, for most of my early life she lived more than a 3 hour drive north of us, in Lowell, MA. I have fond memories of her calling me her little chickadee, and tossing matchbox cars across the kitchen floor at each other. The "spare room" in our house was always referred to as "Memere's room" while I was growing up, as she was it's only real occupant that I can recall.

When she lived in Lowell she had a fish tank, but there were no fish in it, there were little ceramic figurines of animals and things. I remember she gave me a few - a squirrel maybe, and a lamb, I think. And her apartment used to have carpet that went into the dining room that I thought was strange - although, now that I type it out loud, I can't understand why it was strange my parents carpet also goes into the dining room. But hers was strange. And, she had this little vacuum thing, which may very well have been the first ever Swiffer, that you just rolled over the carpet and it picked up the crumbs. And her step-stool, it was yellow. Gosh, I remember such weird things about that apartment.

The elementary school I went to had Grandparents Day each year, and she would come down for it. Our grandparents would come around with us for the day, meet our friends and teachers. It was usually in April or May, and I remember how fun it was to show her the things I did, and to get to eat lunch with her. It was probably one of the best days of the whole year - for both of us, I think.

When I was about 12, she moved to RI, and had the apartment with the garage. And ever after she moved out, that apartment will be remembered for one thing, and one thing only. Sewage. We used to see her every Sunday, we'd go to her house in the evenings, she'd have something for dessert. We'd all eat and talk. I'm sure that I didn't always act like I cared, but I know I always liked going over there. And then a few years later, we'd go over on Sunday mornings instead - and go out for breakfast. Or take a drive to Watch Hill for ice cream.

I remember years of being nervous to be the one to go upstairs and get her - for no good reason. But we used to do that little "shave and a haircut" knock. I'd do the first part "shave and a hair cut" and she'd knock back with "two bits!" Which means she was likely standing there for 20 minutes waiting for me to do my part, so that she wasn't late with hers. When I think hard, I can still hear her saying "I'm coming, I'm coming" or the way she said "Hello" when she answered the telephone.

One of the worst parts about moving to Texas, I'm realizing, is that I'm missing her. When I lived in Massachusetts I could still see her often, or call. The longer I'm gone, and the farther away I am, the more impossible that becomes. She'll be 98 in May, and long distance communication is tough. Obviously, she does not text, IM, or email (which comprises 78% of my communication). She is legally blind, and so we can not be penpals (we wrote often while I was in college). And the longer she's in the nursing home, the more difficult the phone becomes. With her advancing age, and her declining sensory perception, she's having a harder time holding on to things that are simply not part her daily routine. The phone is not in her routine. And, now, neither am I.

I saw her while I was home for Christmas, and while Christmas day itself was a challenge for her, it was nice to be able to spend a lot of time together. I can say, with some professional clout, that she does not have dementia, but is a 98 year old woman who is blind, can't hear, and doesn't walk - and I can imagine it's easier to let go of your remaining faculties instead of trying to hold on to the few you've got left. So, while she may not have always been aware that it was me who was there with her during those visits, I was lucky enough to hear her mention once or twice that she has a granddaughter in Texas. And, I was able to see the look of recognition (and confusion) on her face when I called her Memere!

"Wait, what did you just call me?" "Memere!" "Ohh, it's Jenni!"