Granny

I couldn't let this go.  Working for the family has been one of the most challenging things that I've ever done.  And Granny is right on top of the list of challenges.  I know that there is a reason that God put me where I am as far as work is concerned. I believe that Granny needs me there. And if that's what keeps her "happy" while she's old than so-be-it.  And while I love her, that woman sure can rub me the wrong way!  A few months ago I just kind of started writing.  In 2004 Granny had a stroke and everything started crumbling. I have done more "remembering" since then than I think I ever did before.  In 2005 I started working for Old South and took on a role in Granny's medical care.  Knowing someone's medical history is very personal. And it started changing a lot of the ideas that I always had about her. There are days when I wish I had just left it alone. Days that I wish that I didn't know the things that I know, days that I wish that I could forget the unpleasant and keep on moving with the childhood fantasy Granny that I know and love. When I started writing it was really just going to be about Granny. She's actually pretty hilarious in her old, set ways.  And as I wrote I realized that as a family, we are way too intertwined to make the book just about her......and then I realized that if I continued writing, while everyone is still alive at least, I will for sure be unemployed and probably not spoken to for a while. So I stopped.  But in honor of Granny and the ever widening generation gap that continues to separate us, I'm posting what I had written.

“Hey Dot!”  That’s what I always called Granny in less than fun moments.  This qualified.  It was Early Summer, 2004.  Granny was in the hospital because she fell and hit her head and as most hospitals do, they opted to run every test possible on her so they could cash in on her medicaid.  I’ll never forget that day.  I was 21 years old and falling very comfortably into my supportive role of the family.  I was there to tell her, don’t worry, her kids had to be elsewhere, but I would be there when she woke up from the anesthesia. The cardiologist assured us that the Heart Catheterization was “no big deal” and a “routine procedure”.  I remember thinking that having a wire threaded through the arteries in your heart didn’t seem very “routine” to me but Granny thought the doctor was cute so she went along with everything he said.   I had already learned to pick my battles at that point.

The cath took a little bit longer than I had anticipated. The waiting room was a lot colder than I imagined it could be in the South during the summer.  Maybe it was the marble, or maybe it was the calm before the storm.  Doc came out into the waiting room and I laughed.  This guy?  I’m pretty sure that he had a pocket protector in his scrubs pocket.  I was fairly certain, after effectively stereotyping him to be a nerd, that he paid attention in med school and Granny was going to be just fine.  He sent me up to her room to wait for her and there she comes, getting wheeled down the hallway and yelling at one of the nurses.  Yep, she’s fine!  They started getting closer to me and I realized that Granny was panicking.  She was telling the nurse that something was wrong with her. Okay, she was shaking her finger and yelling that something was wrong with her, and the nurse was ignoring her like she was a crazy old lady.  I got to the bedside and grabbed Granny’s hand and it happened.  The tears were rolling out of her eyes and her eyes were screaming at me, but she couldn’t tell me why.  She was trying to talk but her mouth wouldn’t move.  She was grasping my hand with one of hers, and the other was limp.  Granny was having a stroke. 

That was the day that the proverbial pedestal that I set Granny on for my entire life began to fall out from underneath her.    

My earliest memories of Granny revolve around food.  I can smell the macaroni & cheese in the oven right now.  Granny is that woman that everything always tasted better when it came from her kitchen.  It wasn’t until my 20’s and I started cooking that I realized that all of that goodness was equivalent to Crisco and Country Crock…..which are subsequently equivalent to the current size of my butt.  I grew up as the fat sister and constantly had the word “fat” preached to me.  Have you ever eaten Butter Buds? They are a gelatenous butter substitute that comes in a packet and you mix with water.  That’s what we ate in our house instead of butter, because McKenzee was fat.  We suffered through turkey burgers that were so dry they closed your trachea, weight watchers this and slim fast that, and every other diet gimic under the sun.  My mom made me go to the gym and watch this lady dance around in her thong leotard to Taylor Dane and she expected me to join in the aerobics class.  “Tell it to my heart” wasn’t exactly the motivation I needed.  I EVEN tried Sweating to the Oldies.  Shameful. Mccall was a size 0 since the day I can remember.  She metabolizes any and all things at a speed that my body can’t even fathom.  So all of “the treats” would get hidden in our house.  I remember one day, literally, faking sick for school because I planned to stay home and eat the treats in McCall’s closet.  As soon as they would leave I would bust that box of Swiss Cake Rolls and Star Crunches out and eat my fat little heart out.  “Fat” was the elephant in the room at our house.  And it never ever left me alone.  But Granny, Granny didn’t care.  Being with her reminded me that I was more than just fat.  She loved that I loved to eat. It made her feel like she was worth the amount of time that she spent in the kitchen.  We were a perfect pair back then.  My breakfast at her house would be yellow grits (because there is no other color grit), buttered toast with preserves and a Coke. Yeah that’s right, a Coke.  When I would go to spend the weekend with Granny, Mom would pack me a little bag of snacks…..which I’m pretty sure tossed a little fuel on Granny’s Feeder Fire.  In the bag there would be sodas - Diet Rite White Grape.  Granny proclaimed one weekend that those weren’t real sodas and “one little ol’ Cocola ain’t gonna hurt you”.  These were the moments that formed our bond.  She would say things to me like, “you not fat, you just real big boned” or “it’s not your fault that you retain so much water”.  One of my favorites of all time is “you can’t help that you got fat genes”.  She never did have anything nice to say about my biological father. 

When I first read that the book “The Rules” was out and a bestseller I thought for sure that Granny was a co-author.  She wrote the book on proper, if you ask her.  I was in Elementary School on this day, and sitting  at the lunch table waiting for Granny to arrive.  She volunteered for lunch duty every now and again and today was her day.  I heard the clicking of her heels across the gigantic room and didn’t even haveto look up, Granny was here.  Black hair, tight rolled and set. Lilac purple, ruffle breasted, high neck with mother of pearl buttons blouse.  Indigo wash, high waisted jeans, with nude hose AND a girdle on underneath, naturally, and those shoes.  Rattlesnake skin stilettos.  All for a lunch date at the Elementary school.  Granny believed that’s the way a woman should present herself at all times.  That she should take pride in her appearance as her family is a direct reflection of her…..aesthetically speaking.   

Granny is from the generation that believed if it looks good, than it is good.  A generation of tight pin curls and white aprons.  A generation of women that believed in looking the part but paying someone else to actually play it. A generation where women with complaints or anxiety or stress were “quieted” by a male doctor with drugs strong enough to take down a Clydesdale.  A generation that believed in sweeping anything unpleasant right under the rug because hiding it and ignoring it was “nicer” than confronting the issue.