Gram and her Schmeagles...

Bundled to visit Dr. Locher...whom she loooooves.

The date is January 12th...

Just half a day ago, I watched Waimea recede into the distance as I inched my unwilling self towards the airport. My arms reached out the window, trying to grasp the last essence of green beauty of the place I called home for this past month. I felt like a child being dragged from the playgrounds, just too stubborn to leave. Painful.

Now, I am sitting in Palace Lexington, the rehabilitation center where my grandmother lays in hope that her broken right hip will mend quicker then it will take 31 days in January to elapse. The smell of Hawaiian Jasmine has been replaced by the wafting scents of microwavable carrots and the powder used to displace smelly diapers. The balmy tropical weather that I was getting so used to has been pummeled and replaced with temperatures that cause my boogers to freeze as soon as I step outside. Painful.

She is doing great though, my grandma. For being cooped up all day, her youthful 86-year old self glides cheerfully in her wheelchair down the hallway, making random grunts about the mass-produced artwork. When she passes her male counterparts, she sticks her good hand out to reach for theirs and the weathered fingers bend and form into one solid handshake. Her way of flirting? I have no doubt. Her negativity is as vibrant as ever as seen when she refuses to listen to her Physical therapist. Gram claims she is rude but I saw her mood shift when she saw the ladies charm bracelet had Hebrew written on it. 

The stroke she suffered 25 years ago left her a paralyzed right side and without the use of speech (save for four simple phrases...'Ahhh shit', 'I love you', 'money, money, money' and dadooo!'). So in order to communicate, she sky writes with her left hand each trailing thought...letter by letter. If you fail to read it on the first attempt, she throws out a look that says "you have just been omitted from my will". It is impressive really, that she is still alive and that all lab work constantly comes back unremarkable. Her diet is made primarily up of Werthers candies, Pepsi and an occasional chocolate shake. She only sips water when it is time for her medications and if you linked all the cigarettes that she has smoked together, I am sure they would circle the globe numerous times. She is amazing. Built with pure brawn and simply amazing.

What is not amazing though is the condition of her feet. Years of neglect have left them dry, brittle and in serious need of attention. Years ago, during one of my visits, I noted that her skin needed a good lather in lotion. As I rubbed Jergens into her the dry scales of her legs, my attention was taken to her toes. "Gram! When was the last time you cut your toenails?!"

Her good arm flew up and her shoulders shrugged. The baffle in her eyes suggested a lifetime. My guess was a few decades ago.

She bent her knee and lifted her foot to the level of my eye. I crouched down to examine. Each movement her foot made, speckles of skin fluttered about. I was afraid to inhale, nervous that each breath would mean a lung full of Grams foot flakes. She looks at me "Daddoooo, ahh shit."

A pair of nail clippers never sat far from her chair...I knew what had to be done. 

"Gram, (guuuulp) do you want me to trim your toenails?"

"Ahhh, good, dadooo!" She smiles and I muster all my strength. I have seen some gross things in my day; the miracle of life, dead bodies in morgues, blood spurting like a volcano. But this? This goes down in the ultimate books of disgusting endeavors.

If you have seen Dumb and Dumber then you can imagine the scene that followed. Dead, thick nails catapulting into the sky while my head swung dodging them in slow motion. I should have put on safety goggles because one of those bad boys to the eye could have left me blind. But I persevered knowing (hoping) that when the day came that I couldn't reach my toes, or pluck the stray hairs from my chin, that my granddaughter would sit at my feet and do the same. She giggled when I topped it off with a foot and ankle massage. This had to feel like gold to her.

But, once you taste the nectar of the gods, it is hard to go back to plain, and boring juice. Each visit after that, almost immediately upon my arrival, her fingers would point to her white Velcro Reebok's with high expectations. And each time I patiently debrided her frail pedal digits. They were compounding and each time her little feet looked even littler. 

The expectations hadn't changed with the move to Lexington. My mom, unwilling to step foot into the treacherous territory, allowed Gram and I to spend some quality time alone while I sawed down the stems. As she laid like a fragile branch in her electronic bed, I littered her fleece blanket with trimmings and wondered if this meant that I was getting her wedding ring when she passed. I could see that no one had stepped in during my year absence so surely I was rightful and deserving. The big toe on her right foot, always the biggest, most yellow and hardest to tame took nearly an hour alone to manage. I now wasn't only nervous about breathing in her expired epidermis but was curious as to what conditions my own skin would suffer. Gram was loving every bit of it. She was thrilled, beaming, delighted and every other synonym for the word happy! So in the midst of the disgustingness, the smile I shot back was heartfelt and real. I no longer minded the task I was doing.

When all is said and done, she snuggles in and I perch in the upholstered chair to her right to read her the love letters that my Grandpa sent her while he was in the war. Hundreds of handwritten messages scribing his wistful determination to make it home to kiss her once again. Some began with "Dear Sugar..." and "My Dearest Virginia..." Her eyes sparkle and I see her mind recount each time she opened them, ecstatic with the touch of love, knowing that her soldier was physically oceans away, but emotionally tangled in a web of passion, in her heart. 

And then she would make a drinking motion with her hand...reminding me that he was a raging alcoholic.

So then I tell her, while she is in a good mood, that I am moving to San Francisco.

Her stink eye grows scary and I try to calm her by saying that no matter what, Chicago is still my favorite place on earth. She then motions her finger across her neck, side to side. "DEAD!" she gasps. This means 'don't go...not until I die'.

But, is seems evident that she will outlive us all and if I heed her advice, I will never make it to the Golden Gate Bridge nor see the gigantic Redwood trees stand gigantically above me. Her amazing eating habits and her addiction to tobacco clearly overpower the raw snacks we try to enforce. She will have none of it. 

They just don't make grandmas like they used to...