more about Marge

I think it is probably easier to sit down and write about running that it is to write about Grandma. And I do need to write about the half-marathon I ran yesterday in brutal heat. But I keep thinking about Grandma.

Marge was the last living grandparent I had. She was the only one I really knew as an adult. She sent me birthday cards in college. And she included the requisite grandma check, if memory serves. Because I am running for her, I think about her all the time now. In some ways I feel closer to her because of this. The down side is that I find myself wishing I knew her better and mourning all the lost moments I should have been able to have with her.

When it became clear that Grandma was progressing further into her illness, I remember travelling to where she lived for Thanksgiving dinner. I think it was the last time I saw her that she knew who I was. I remember very little about the day except that it was at my cousin's house and that Grandma kept asking where her purse was. So I kept reassuring her and getting up to "check" on it. And I remember hugging her as much as I possibly could. I can be a bit excessive with my hugging (just ask my wife) but Grandma just smiled and hugged me back...over and over and over. There is a picture somewhere of that day but I'm not sure where it is. Still...it's plastered into my brain. In that picture, I can see the illness in Grandma's eyes. She was smiling but a part of her was already gone.

I didn't see her many times after that. I lived far away. And if I'm being truthful, I had a really hard time seeing her in the nursing home. I got a call one day from my Dad that said that the nurses had said she had stopped eating. Since Grandma had prepared for this ahead of time, she had specified that no heroic measure were to be taken and that she was not to be fed by a feeding tube. It was time to wait and see if she would start eating again or if this would be the end of her suffering. I felt compelled to go see her.

Seeing Grandma in the nursing home was one of the most difficult things I have had to go through in my life. She couldn't speak or focus on anyone, she couldn't walk or move on her own, except for an odd tick she had developed where she brought her hand up and looked as if she was brushing some crumbs off her upper lip. She looked uncomfortable to me. She didn't wear her glasses anymore at that point, and her face looked different. By the time I was able to get there, she had begun eating again. But someone had fed her and dropped some food on her shirt. I was heartbroken by this. It's a horrible memory. I asked my Dad to fix it. I could have done something myself but somehow when I'm upset, I just want my Dad to take care of things. And he usually does.

Once we left and got into the car, I took out the scrapbook my Aunt Jan had made for me and given to me before we had left to see Grandma. She said it was for after I had seen her. I opened it and immediate began sobbing. I couldn't explain why so I just handed it to my Mom. My Aunt had put together a book of happy memories from my Grandma. She had written in it about how hard it had been for her to see her Grandma in the same circumstance when she was younger. And she wanted me to be able to remember better times. The photo on this page is from that scrapbook.

Grandma hated milk! Who knew! Her favorite color was green. Hence, the color of this page. She and my grandfather watched and followed the projects on This Old House. To this day, when I hear that theme song, it brings me right back to their living room and hearing them update us on all the projects that had led up to a particular episode. And I still don't enjoy and am not good at jigsaw puzzles but I would give anything to sit at the table with her and my Dad and my Aunt while they drink coffee and work a puzzle until late into the night. I can still hear the creak of the dining room chairs as they shifted in them to look across the table for just the right piece.

I didn't think too much about these moments until I started spending hours and hours every week running alone and thinking about how angry I am that I missed out on 20 or 30 more years with my Grandma, sharing book suggestions, laughing at old stories, and waiting to see when Grandpa would next pull out his harmonica and put on an impromptu kitchen concert for all.