To Kvetch, or Not to Kvetch

My grandparents helped raise me. As the years wore on, my mother’s mental illness made it too difficult for her to care for me. My father was often exhausted and stressed after coming home from a long day at work.

My grandparents bought me my first bike, pushed me on the swings at the park, took me to classical music concerts every summer at our local community college, and taught me how to bake, sew and crochet. They encouraged me to browse through old photo albums, read the New York Times every Sunday and perform well in school.

In the afternoons, we slurped down butter pecan ice cream sodas while watching Judge Judy, Olympic skating, or Titanic. My grandparents often spoke Yiddish during their more private conversations but over time, I caught on and can still remember a few phrases.

My grandparents learned early on how to make the best of what they had, work hard, and save as much money as possible. Therefore unlike my parents, they saved whatever money they could for me and put it in a separate savings account for college.

Both my mother’s parents are still kicking — my grandfather just celebrated his 100th birthday and my grandmother turns 94 this year. The past years have been emotionally and physically taxing. My grandfather slowly overcame a stubborn and debilitating bacterial infection at Maimonides, and my grandmother predictably kvetched over him every time she visited. Seeing him suffer put her own health and well-being at risk.

Since then, my grandfather has resided in a nursing home only twenty minutes away from their prewar, three-story walkup apartment. My grandmother, now grudgingly reliant on her assortment of walkers and canes, still climbs the steps whenever someone can patiently accompany her, usually myself or her incredibly kind aide, Muchelle.

Just yesterday, I helped my grandmother into a car service (I don’t drive) to visit him for a few precious hours. It always amazes me how stubborn they still are, how their senses of humor haven’t wavered, how much they still love each other.

My grandmother often yells I need to be careful before leaving the car to fetch her walker, after sharing a joke with the driver. Through clenched teeth, she has even threatened to hit me on the head for apologizing to anyone waiting to pass her on the stairs, street, or in an elevator. I feel responsible for inconveniencing others. My grandmother expects everyone to remain patient and let her walk as slow as necessary. I always thought my “I’m sorry’s” were for others’ benefit. Most people just offer a smile that evokes kindness, admiration and sympathy.

While dozing off in a chair at the nursing home, I overheard bits of my grandparents’ conversation. This one was only in English. My grandmother sat hunched over in my grandfather’s bed to hold his hand and tell him about the luncheon she decided against attending to visit him instead.

Witnessing them age and become much more dependent on others is a constant reminder of how little time they have left, which of course means, I won’t be a caregiver much longer. In truth, I regrettably often feel relieved by this reality. It also greatly saddens me.

Amongst the chaos, my grandmother usually thanks me for my help and offer to compensate me for my time. I always reject her offer and insist gratitude is more than enough. Before heading home, I kiss her goodbye, slowly close her apartment door and pause to take a deep breath. I walk down the three flights filled with guilt, wondering if I should have stayed longer or offered to spend the night.

In these moments, I have to remind myself to focus on my own responsibilities and worries. Sometimes being a caregiver for your frail and stubborn grandmother is oddly simpler than tackling your own life.

In spite of all the tsuris (trouble/distress in Yiddish), I’m incredibly grateful they are both still here.