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There was still one box of Grandma Rose’s things in the garage attic
when I went home this summer.
It was a simple cardboard box, somehow overlooked when
our family distributed the meager possessions of a 100-year-old
woman who’d lived the last decade of her life in a nursing home.
There had been just a few things in the first place —
things she’d kept in her room at St. Gerard’s Nursing Home in
Hankinson, North Dakota. Actually, “room” is a generous term for her
last home. She shared the space with a roommate, with her half being
just big enough for a single bed, a rocking chair and a three-drawer
dresser.
But what St. Gerard’s lacked in space, it made up for
with love and compassion and genuine caring. Most of the women who
work there had known my grandma all of their lives. The nuns from
the Sister School had always called her a friend; by the end, they
were calling her their “saint.” Grandma loved it there and they
loved her.
And so, over the years — over the birthdays and
Halloweens and Christmases and other moments worth remembering —
little things had collected on top of the dresser or on the shelf on
the wall. And those were the things her family lovingly packed in
their suitcases after the funeral.
But this one box had been forgotten. My dad — her
first-born of six sons — had stashed it up there, out of the way,
long before Grandma died last January.
“Let’s see what’s in Grandma’s box,” I said one July
night as we sat on the back porch, watching the martins and sparrows
fly into their birdhouses. “What do you want with that box?” my dad
gruffly asked. “There’s nothing in it.”
But my sister, Judy, and I went to bring it down anyway.
And for once, my father was wrong.
My grandma took a long time to die, and I’ll never
understand how God could have let that happen. She’d led such a
wonderful life, a go-to-mass-every-day kind of life, a
raise-a-good-family kind of life, a be-kind-to-everyone kind of
life. So why she’d have to suffer for six months makes no sense.
She’d been doing fine — not just fine, but great — until
just two months shy of her 100th birthday. Our entire family was
planning a gala birthday party for her in the summer of 2001.
Invitations had been sent; an ad announcing an open house in her
honor had run in the local weekly. Her children and most of her
grandchildren had plane tickets to North Dakota. Even one
great-grandson was coming.
I called my grandma most Sundays, and during that year,
often told her about things we were planning for the birthday party.
“Oh, Janney, I hope I’m still here,” she’d tease me, using my family
nickname. And I’d scold back, “You better be here.” And we’d laugh.
One of the things I will always hold close to my heart is that I
could make my grandmother laugh. It’s one of the most important
things I’ve ever done.
And then she fell and broke her hip. At 99 years and 10
months, she survived a five-hour hip replacement surgery, but she
never really “came back” after that. She was in pain, she had no
appetite, she lost a frightening amount of weight, she was listless,
she was depressed. When she stopped going to daily mass at the
chapel across from her room, we really got worried.
But we all gathered for the birthday that had been so
long in the planning, and prayed Grandma was up for it. I’ve got to
tell you, she rallied like a trooper and it turned out to be a
fabulous party.
Months before, I’d wished out loud to my friend Estelle
that there would be 100 roses at my Grandma Rose’s 100th birthday
party. Estelle, whose own dear “Ya Ya” was as important to her as my
grandma was to me, immediately said she’d like to send the flowers
as her gift to my family. I protested that it was too much, but
Estelle insisted that it wasn’t, and I don’t win many arguments with
her anyway — this wasn’t one I was sad to lose.
I remember calling my mother to start collecting vases,
because we had an incredible bouquet of 100 flowers coming from
Estelle. My mother was pretty impressed. I called the local flower
shop in Hankinson, and asked if they would receive the roses and
strip them. We cut a deal on labor costs and everything was set. So
you can imagine the reaction when Estelle decided to send 750 roses
— more roses than this flower shop orders for its biggest selling
day of the year.
Astonishing news travels fast in Hankinson, and this was
astonishing news. “Rudy,” somebody asked my dad. “How much does it
cost for 750 roses?” “Don’t know,” he answered with a smile. “They
were a gift.” Nobody in Hankinson has ever known anyone who would
give such a gift — I’ve never had a friend do anything so
magnificently over-the-top. But leave it to my friend Estelle to
understand the perfect moment to honor my Grandma Rose.
So the day before the party, her family all gathered in
the kitchen of the Senior Citizen’s Center to fill the vases. Even
the men got into the act — my Uncle Paul turns out to be quite a
flower arranger. My Uncle Dennis came up with the idea of putting a
giant bouquet of roses by the door so everyone could take one home
after the party. We had several vases on each table, and the top of
the piano had a long spray — so did the mantel of the fireplace. We
made corsages for everyone in the family. It was one gorgeous room.
Grandma couldn’t believe there were so many roses in her
honor. If she told me once, she told me a dozen times to be sure my
friend knew how much she loved them. She looked so lovely and kept
laughing and kissing everyone. She’d never had a party like this
before, and couldn’t believe so many people had come. Her only
living sibling, Andy, was there, and it was a special moment of joy
when they embraced.
She was impressed that all of my mother’s siblings came,
too, including Uncle Petie from Montana, who got a special hug. (I
was thrilled that all my aunts and uncles from both sides were
partying together.) Although she couldn’t see anyone, she knew many
of the voices, or was filled in by my dad, who stayed at her side
the whole party. I know she had a good time, because she told me so.
Nobody left the party without a rose. Every single
person was asked to take a rose home in honor of Rose. Mother also
gave generous bouquets to the nuns for the Sister’s School, and to
friends from other churches. She, of course, had already sent
bouquets to our Catholic Church and the nursing home and its chapel.
And my sister had made sure there were lovely bouquets in my
mother’s lovely home. I’m not sure many bouquets of roses have ever
spread so much joy. But it’s safe to say that most of Hankinson had
a rose in honor of my grandmother.
Our family spent the next few days reading her the
birthday cards. We’d describe the card and read the verse and then
Grandma would tell us about the person who’d sent it. Some added a
few dollars; some sent a present like a cross or an angel; some had
masses said in her honor. She even had a card from the president.
She was surrounded by family and love, and she gave it back to each
one of us.
Grandma went straight downhill after that. And my
parents began a vigil at her bedside. They’d always been attentive —
my mother had become a regular volunteer at the home during my
grandma’s entire stay — but now, it was part of their daily life. My
sister, Judy, who’d always been devoted to her grandma, visited her
every weekend when she came home. My brother, Gary, went to see her
often. The rest of us lived away and were increasingly alarmed at
the reports we were getting. That fall, when my godson, Robert, was
visiting me in Phoenix, we called Grandma and it was obvious she
didn’t understand who we were.
By the time I went home last Christmas, my Grandma’s
frail body was still there, but she simply wasn’t anymore. She was
never really awake; she couldn’t talk except to moan about the pain;
her eyes were sometimes open, but she didn’t see you; she never even
knew we were there. But we’d go every day to sit with her, praying
she was sleeping because she was out of pain when she slept and that
seemed to be the only time she had peace. I never dreamed I’d pray
for my grandma to die, but I did and it still ticks me off that God
would let it get to that.
That Christmas was such a contrast. My mother’s home was
all decorated for the holidays, and the kitchen was filled with
just-baked cookies. Back in Phoenix, my own home had a Christmas
tree in every room and was filled with the collections I so prize —
Santas, angels, Nativity sets from around the world. And then there
was the nursing home where all the decorations in the world couldn’t
hide the pain in my grandma’s room.
Last Christmas Eve, my mother asked us all to take turns
visiting so Grandma wouldn’t be alone. I stopped at the flower shop
that had been such a source of joy just months before and bought her
a couple of roses. None of us could stand decorating her room, as
though there were any joy in this season for her, but I thought she
needed some ornaments. I also took her the wooden angel I had
decorated. I unwrapped her present and put it on the dresser by the
roses.
I have all these funny and wonderful pictures of my
grandmother at her favorite holiday. She’s wearing a hat that
proclaims, “I Believe”; she’s holding an animated Christmas toy that
makes some wacky sound; she’s surrounded by presents in my parents’
living room; she’s sitting at the dining room table with Grandpa
Leo, waiting for my mother’s feast. I hope if I look at those
pictures long enough, it will erase the painful memory of my
grandmother on the last Christmas of her life.
It wasn’t a very big box, and I’d expected my dad was
right — that whatever was inside wasn’t much. But there was an angel
in a pink dress, and yes, Mother said, you can have that. And there
was a silly moose dressed in a Santa suit, whose paw says “press
here,” and when you do, he jiggles and moves his plastic mouth and
sings Jingle Bell Rock. (Did I mention he has a green and white wool
scarf around his neck? He does.) Nobody else wanted him, so he came
home to Phoenix.
And then I found a small box that once held “Nu-Salt”
shakers, “a sodium-free salt substitute,” according to the printing
on the cardboard.
“Oh My God,” I said as I carefully brought out the three
wooden figurines that had been wrapped in tissue paper. The largest
is a man on one knee, his head bowed. The next is a woman, her hands
folded in prayer. The smallest is a baby in a cradle. One still
holds the sticker, “Made in Bethlehem, Israel.”
In 1987, I went on an interfaith mission to Israel
through the Jewish Federation of Phoenix. On our third day, we
visited Bethlehem and had a short stop at a gift shop. I spent a
good chunk of money buying Nativity sets for my family. It was only
after I’d shipped them all off that I realized I’d forgotten to buy
a set for myself. So the collection I’ve assembled over the years
has always been missing the most important Nativity of them all.
Here, in this simple brown box, was the set I’d sent my
grandparents. It was one of the few things Grandma took with her
when she moved into the nursing home. My sister knew it well, from
all the years of decorating her room. “Grandma would always say,
‘Put up the Nativity set Janney sent,’” Judy remembers.
And
so, this Christmas, when she’s free of pain and celebrating with the
Birthday Boy himself, I’ll place the Nativity she loved in a place
of honor in my home. It will be there every year. The last won |
