It Was All Good, As I Remember

Photo by Ester Knowlen Photography

Yesterday would have been my grandmother Leota’s 98th birthday. I owe so much of who I am to this woman and all she taught me about kindness, compassion and the importance of family, which she valued above everything else.

So on this day, I’m posting a throwback to a story I wrote some years ago about a day spent with her.

xx

I arrive straight from work, a bit warn down from the whirlwind of a busy workday. My grandmother Leota waves to me from her porch. Leaning slightly over her railing, her left hand forms a brim on her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright sun setting over the horizon just past me.

Leota’s greetings always seem powered by a source bigger than herself. Her small, frail body pours more energy into her waves than I ever have. I feel like a distant version of someone to love as I quickly wave back and jaunt towards the front door of her assisted living place.

I'm pleased when I realize she remembered I was coming.

I punch in the 4-digit access code, wait for the “buzz”, and make my way inside. The entryway of her assisted living place feels welcoming and immaculate. The large open foyer, carpeted with royal colors and patterns, is enveloped by two arching staircases, symmetrical on either side.

The only sound I hear as I arrive is the door as it closes behind me.

I make my way towards the elevators, step in and press “3”. I welcome the moment alone as the doors close me in and I slowly glide up. In moments like this, I often think of what I would do if the elevator were to suddenly pause mid-ascent. I imagine I would welcome the opportunity for pause. I would breathe in, then out, and take a seat in the corner, cross-legged and silent.

On this day, it takes two knocks, then three, on her apartment door before it opens and she greets me from the other side. She is wearing a pink sweater and a gold, dangling necklace, with open sandals and earrings made of buttons. I bend down to hug her.

“Hello, Grandma,” I say.

“Hello,” she responds. “Oh dear, how are you? It has been such a long time.”

It hadn't been forever since I had last seen her. In fact, I had stood in the exact same same spot just one week prior. Poisoned with progressive dementia, Leota lives alone in a one bedroom apartment at a place where time is indeed relative, guided by mealtimes, a schedule of daily activities and the rising and setting of the sun.

At exactly 5 o’clock, we make our way down to the communal dining room and sit at a table near the back, brightened by tall windows and warmed by a nearby fireplace. Leota’s new living place is fairly new and only partially occupied, so the dining area always feels empty.

“I'll get what you get,” she says, looking blankly at the menu.

I check the appropriate boxes on the paper menus, ordering a “specialty” sandwich for us both, which consists of a thin spread of peanut butter and a layer of banana slices on a sweet, sourdough bread. Grandma picks at hers, barely making a dent in it before pushing her plate aside.

“Do you not like it?” I address her, pointing at her disregarded dinner.

“Oh,” she replies, with a slight pause. “It was all good. Yes, it was all good.”

I know not to ask any more.

…

My grandmother has over 90 years of experiences and only a subset of those can now be recalled by her through memory. Although we can try, we have little control over which of our experiences will make a lasting impact on us, and which of our experiences will simply float away from our consciousness.

Later on, I ask her to tell me of an early memory.

She scoots up in her seat, shifted her feet, looks up at me and begins.

“I can remember staying alone,” she says. “Mother had to work and I can remember being huddled in the corner of the dining room. And there was a window there and then there was the corner. And I can remember just staying there, really frightened, you know? Even to walk through the house.”

She pauses, losing herself for a moment. I ask how old she was in this memory. She says four, maybe five. I realize it is the same age I am in my oldest, foggiest memories and imagine us together, arms linked and huddled up in that scary corner. Two young souls, learning together how life worked.

She continues on, her memories of her life during these times flowing quickly back into focus. She remembers details, too, like the shade of brown of her oldest sister's hair, the layout of the street outside her first job at a bakery, how she felt when her brother died.

“Grandma,” I say, interrupting. “Can I ask you what you think of your memories? I mean, what do they feel like to you now, looking back on them after all these years? Are there any that you wish you could be rid of, or bring back again?”

My questions flow out like her memories. Sporadically, but purposeful. A small twinkle appears in her eyes.

“It was all good,” she replies. “I've had quite the life, and it was all good.”

When I leave for home, I feel a mild anger expanding inside me. I realize I’m angry that my grandma, pure of heart and never angry herself, has to spend so many days alone, confused, at her new place. I am angry that a woman who was always able to see beauty in all things could no longer see much at all. I’m angry that she’s been plagued with a failing memory. One that is slipping so rapidly.

But maybe sometimes, there’s something bigger at play. Maybe there is reason to the way our minds hold onto memories. Maybe our good memories, no matter how small, will mask the bad in the end, positioning themselves like soft gray clouds over the damaging rays, shielding us from the burn.

It’s wishful thinking, but it comforts me.

I turn the corner into the neighborhood and slowly up our driveway. For my grandma, life starts all over again when she watches the sun set each evening from her balcony. Her memories set with it, and when it rises again, so does she, with a blank canvas, ready to fill. And maybe that’s the way its all meant to be.

I put the car in park and enter our house. My boyfriend is in the hallway to greet me.

“How was the visit?” he asks.

I smile up at him, and reply simply, “it was all good.”