A Silent Grandma

A Silent Grandma

We called him, “Diddy,” because he was my grandfather on my mother’s side of the family, and after years of working on the railroads around Pittsburgh’s once thriving steel industry, he was perpetually tired at an age too young for such exhaustion.

That’s why, when he passed in his mid-70s in 1983, not even my mother seemed surprised. Sad, yes, but surprised, no. Following the funeral, my mother informed me and my siblings that Grandma would be moving away from western Pennsylvania to our home in the northern panhandle, and all I recall thinking was that I would have the chance to eat more of her terrific beet salad. Chopped celery, chopped hard-boiled eggs, sliced beets, and mayonnaise whisked and served. Yum!

But there wasn’t any salad served. In fact, Grandma said very little, and at first, I believed it was due to sorrow – her and Diddy had been together since their teenage years, raised two boys and my mother, and endured life lived in relative poverty during an era in America when the climb continued out of the Great Depression.

“She misses everything,” my mother explained to me. “She’s just thinking.”

What my mother was not telling me was that Grandma didn’t realize she was a grandmother. Each day she woke up and took a seat in her rocking chair, she gently swayed forward and back, and spoke to no one – not even to her daughter. The routine extended six years before my parents made the difficult decision that Grandma needed continuous care, and that is where she remained for seven more annual calendars.

Most often, I would sit with her in the seniors’ facility and tell her about my high school studies and sports accomplishments, but all of my words fell on seemingly deaf ears. A’s on report cards, championship trophies, additions to the letterman’s jacket, and even a science project that involved railroads and steel attracted non-reactions.

“The railroad was a long time ago now, Steven,” my mother said at the time. “She’s been away from that for a very long time.”

My mother was simply being honest with me without spelling it out. She refused to use terms like, “senile,” “crazy,” or whatever was socially acceptable at the time. The debate about Alzheimer’s Disease was still raging at the time, and I do not recall ever hearing the word, “dementia” at that early age. Most of the time I believed she was simply sad about life and such a depression rendered her silent.

One evening after basketball practice during my junior year, I visited Grandma expecting to read a homework assignment for an hour or so, and while I sat there next to her hospital bed she suddenly asked, “What are you reading, Steven?”

“Homework,” I replied before realizing she spoke to me. “Grandma? Are you still there?! Grandma?”

I knew immediately the question that exited my mouth wasn’t very polite, but it evolved into feeling that my grandmother was lost in her own mind.

“I am,” she said. “What kind of homework?”

“English. We read a lot in that class. Right now, I am reading, ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird.’ It’s about …”

“I saw the movie from the 1960s. It’s a fine story.”

Grandma continued asking me about school, sports, girls, and even about how much I was eating because of the amount of growth I experienced during my high school days. Suddenly, in eighth grade, I had grown taller than my father.

“I bet your parents never expected that when they adopted you,” she said to me. “Oh, you do know you were adopted, right?”

“I do, Grandma, but my parents are my parents. They raised me.”

“That’s exactly right, Steven.”

Our discussion continued for about an hour before it was time for me to get home for a late dinner. I did tell her that I would see her the next evening and she acknowledged that she would be there as usual. When I walked into the back door of my house, my mother was in the kitchen anticipating my return home, and after I told her of my experience, she grabbed her jacket and scurried out the door to visit with her. Mom was still there when I went to bed that night.

The next morning, my mother woke me up a little earlier than usual, but she told me that I wasn’t going to school. “Your grandmother has passed away, Steven.”

“But …”

“The nurses said she went to Heaven,” she explained, “a few minutes after you left last night.”

I was dumbfounded. I didn’t know what to say. My eyes welled with tears because of her death, and because, for whatever reasons, I felt guilty that I had that final conversation with her instead of my mother.

“Mom, I am so sorry …”

“Don’t be.”

“But mom …

“It was a gift she gave to you … now, why don’t you tell me everything you two talked about.”