The Inevitably of Time
The slow march to the bitter end
My grandma died unexpectedly last Sunday. I say unexpectedly, but in reality, it wasn't all that unexpected: she was 2 days shy of turning 96, and although she was 100% there mentally, the same wasn't true for her physically. I swear she had shrunk 4 inches in the last 2 years. I’m not even kidding — I haven’t grown since I was like 16, and I don’t ever remember our pictures resembling a Nate Robinson- Yao Ming get together like the one we took last Christmas does. At the time just shortly before her death, I doubt her body could have withstood a fucking confetti shower. As it turns out, that was probably true — all it took was a small fall in the bathroom to start a physical chain reaction that culminated in her brain filling up with blood, which ultimately lead to her death a few hours later.
My brother lives in Mexico, and I was tasked with the peremptory and oh-so-joyous job of filling him in on the situation. He had just visited home for a weekend, so I think it may have hit him harder than it hit me, seeing as he had had spoken with her and taken her to lunch just a week previous. I asked him how she was, and he described her as someone “waiting at the bus stop.” I can’t imagine imagine living like that, and I like to think that where she is now is a huge improvement over the place she was in just 7 days ago. Living everyday knowing that one false step might be your last, that one unexpected dip in the concrete could sign your afterlife visa, must fucking suck. At any rate, I’m positive that everyone in heaven is now enjoying the company of an infinitely sweet and kind former Ms. Montana. I’m also positive that they’re all getting bitched at for not eating their veggies.
My grandma primarily functioned as a surrogate mother for me during elementary and middle school. Thinking back, I really have no idea why she always had to pick me up from school — from the time I was born until around when I turned 18, my mom didn't work, so I really have no clue what the fuck was keeping her so busy during the 3:00 P.M. hour. Probably just her annoying habit of biting off way more than she can chew. At any rate, it was definitely an improvement — my mom is PERPETUALLY late. I don’t know what the hospital room was like when she was born, but if I were a gambling man, I’d bet on every single person in the room impatiently checking their watches and passive-aggressively muttering to themselves, “Where the fuck is Margaret? She said she was five minutes away from getting out of there TWENTY MINUTES AGO!”
In contrast, My grandma, or “Nanny” as she liked us to call her, was fastidious and punctual, and always brought me a snack. It’s funny how vividly you remember certain things from your past — every single time, it was one of those white cracker packages with the vat of “cheese” (I shudder thinking about what the shit actually is) that you spread on the cracker with the little hybrid red plastic knife/lego baseball bat, and some apples. I think seeing how much I enjoyed the snack gave her as much satisfaction as actually eating the snack gave to me. She’d always call me “Old Bean.” Or was it “Ol’ Bean?” I wish I would’ve cleared that up when I had the chance. I also have no idea where that nickname came from, all I know is that it always made me feel special in a very unique way, as only she could.
The rides home were not always completely copacetic, though. We’d often argue over trivial shit that mattered to no one. She was obstinate, and I was an idiot, and the arguments would often get so heated that we’d spend the last half of the trip in awkward silence while those weird soft piano instrumentals she was always listening to on the radio hummed in the background. The goodbyes at the end would often be curt and perfunctory, at best. It didn't matter, though — we both had short memories and I’d always be excited to see her again the next time she picked me up in that white Buick LeSabre that I came to associate exclusively with her.
Towards the end of her life, she lived in a cottage on the outskirts of an assisted living home. This was essentially a functional compromise between her two sons and her: she maintained her autonomy, and they slept peacefully at night knowing that an army of caregivers worked 200 feet away. We went to that cottage every Christmas Eve, where I would do my best to develop adult onset diabetes from cake and chocolate as well as convince my parents that I am well on my way to alcoholism (in my defense, Leonetti is really fucking good)and she would giggle to herself while watching me and my brothers squirming, trying to find our presents — she always hid our gifts, put hints in the cards, and left us to find them by ourselves, like some sort of twisted Easter Egg hunt. Towards the end, I think her greatest joy in life came from fucking with us.
More than just symbolically and literally ending my relationship with her, her death signals the curtain closing on my relationship with all of my grandparents. My mom’s mom died while I was in the womb, and my dad’s dad (who I barely remember) died when I was around 5. My mom’s dad died during the spring break of my Senior year at Gonzaga two years ago. Nanny was the final veteran in the dugout. The wise closer in the bullpen who had a just a few more tricks left up his sleeve, like Eddie Harris in Major League. They’re all gone, every single one of them. I don’t say this as a plea for sympathy, (or perhaps empathy) it’s just a fact — the old guard is gone, and they’re not coming back.
It’s easy to think of your elders as being in a time-space vacuum. No matter how old my dad gets, I always think of him as being in his late 50s, despite the fact that he is turning 66 in September. My mom will always be like 53 in my eyes, even though she just turned 64. I think part of of this is because I unconsciously don’t want to believe that they are getting older, and will, eventually, no longer be with me. Another part of it is that I forget that as I get older, they get older too.
However, despite my best efforts to envision the situation differently, time don’t discriminate. It affects everyone equally, and is indiscriminate of race, sex, or religious belief. Every time I talk to my mom, she seems to have tacked on 10 more “Grandma” traits. Her ineptitude towards technology is simultaneously both cute and infuriating. She is constantly asking me why I can’t seem to keep a “nice girl” around. She still seems to think I’m late to the party of getting married, even though I’m only 24. She gives me bigger hugs and more kisses on the cheek, as if she’s going to suddenly lose this opportunity one day (which is very possible, although she clearly thinks about it more than I do). She complains that I don’t call her enough, etc., etc.
My dad is the exact same, although he doesn't yet realize it. There’s some quote floating around somewhere that goes something along the lines of “A dog doesn't know it’s a dog.” The same is true with my dad —he doesn't know he’s old. Despite owning his own business, he is remarkably out of touch with today’s business world and job market. He’s in the car business, and just the other day I had to explain to him what a Tesla was. He had literally no idea. How do you not know that?!
I find him more and more keeping to himself and watching the Mariners by himself on the weekends, and less and less out socializing with his friends. He wears his pants just a little higher and has just a few more pastel colored Cutter & Buck shirts than the last time I saw him each time he comes to visit. Everyday, he becomes more recalcitrant to the ways of an ever changing world. He is becoming more and more of the prototypical old timer, and seems to have no idea.
As a young person, each day symbolizes one day closer to the day that I’ll lose the next generation of my family: my parents. When I turn 25, my dad will turn 67 and my mom will turn 65. When I turn 26, he’ll turn 68 and she’ll turn 66. Nothing can stop this process from happening over and over again until, before I know it, they’re both in their 90s and are waiting at their own metaphorical bus stop.
It’s easier to ignore this inevitable process of life. The more prudent path, however, is to to acknowledge it for what it’s worth. No one can stop the clock. Enjoy the time with your elders while you can. They ain’t gettin nothin but older.
Rest in peace, Nanny. Thanks for always picking me up on time, and thanks for the crackers. I’m going to miss you dearly. I know this because, it’s only been a week, and I already do.