ABOUT

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EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

#1 Grandma
by Shawna Kenney


Grammy hasn’t eaten in three days. They have her on an IV here in the home. We don’t know if she knows where she is. They said she’s dehydrated, so I made a chart, asking everyone who visits to try to get her to drink water and please mark down the time. People forget that part. My brother Darren and I aren’t speaking but I can see from the chart that he’s been here fifteen minutes after me every day. I brought baby wipes for the nurses to use when they change her diapers. I brought her the fuzziest blanket from home. Darren brought her radio in so she can listen to church. My auntie says she walked in on her the other day and she was slumped forward with her false teeth hanging out. She has two roommates—someone else’s Grandmas. “That’s a damn shame,” Grandma number one said the first day I walked in. She was eating a grilled cheese sandwich—picking it apart, actually. I hugged my Grammy and told her I loved her. Grandma number one slammed her fork down and said “I can’t believe this shit. This is a damn shame.” There were no nurses around. “Is there something I can do to help you?” I asked. She looked at me like I was green. “Hell NO!” she squealed, and went back to her grilled cheese. I turned back to my Grammy and poured her some fresh water from my Evian bottle. She doesn’t like the hospital’s water that sits all day in the green pitchers. A nurse came in to check on Grandma number one, and as he cleaned and changed her, she repeated “This is a damn shame.” He told me she says that all the time, not to worry. Grandma number two never has any visitors, but periodically says “I’m gonna call a yellow cab and go to Kaiser” out loud, to nobody. I thought she meant it at first. The nurses told me she has been waiting for that yellow cab for the whole year she’s been here.
 
My Grammy has not talked for the weeks she’s been in here. But yesterday she sang. I was sick of the radio and the yellow cab and the shaming Grandma number one. “Remember how we’d hold hands and skip to the bus, Grammy?” I asked. “And you said people were probably looking at us and saying ‘look at that old lady skipping’?” Her eyes opened. “Do you remember the song?” I asked. She smiled. I love you a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around  the  neck. I sang it and she smiled bigger. I took her little hand in mine and repeated it. I love you a bushel and a peck and she joined in: a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck. Her voice was a whisper, but she sang. I heard it. She closed her eyes afterward, lying back, exhausted by the little tune, but she kept smiling. “Take me to LAX!” yelled Grandma number two.
 
Today I tried again. She kept her eyes closed but squeezed my hand back, so I know she knows I was there. “C’mon Gram. Let’s sing again.” I love you a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck… I sang it all the way through, and nothing. I sang it again. Then sang it a third time. “That’s a damn shame,” said Grandma number one, slamming a cup on her food tray. “Yeah,” I said. "It is."