My grandmother on my father’s side is in hospice. I have placed all of my belongings minus my photo-gear, a few books and some clothes into storage. I have moved to her city to spend the next few months making sure that she and I get some time together. She has always been a difficult one in our family. I think that’s why I have always loved her so much. We are the family PITAs.
I can’t really tell how much she is cognizant of anymore. We chat and look at old post cards. She talks about her children or Sully, my granddad. She asks where she lives now. I don’t always know what to say or do. I know that she has broken two hips. She has trouble walking, and she isn’t eating much. The skin on her hands is playing close to the bone.
She seems to be exhibiting some signs of dementia, but I can’t tell what is dementia and what is her generally snarky attitude.
We were sitting in her room this afternoon. She pointed from her wheelchair to the bathroom door in her room.
“That’s the door to the cupboard,” she said.
I looked over my shoulder and frowned. “No Grandma, that is the door to your bathroom.”
She looked at me mildly confused and restated, “No, I thought that was the door to the cupboard.”
I sat awkwardly for a moment. I asked, “Well Grandma, what do we keep in the cupboard?”
She turn backed to look at me and said flatly, “These days … I guess the bathroom.”