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The Day |
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As far back as I can remember, my grandmother has always been there for me. When my parents were at work or I had some sort of school vacation, I would spend every second with her. My grandmother and I were like separating two sheets of paper that had been super-glued together. We could be separated, but we always took a little piece of each other when we did part. Most of the memories I have of the days I spent with her were at the creek that ran beside her house. We would spend hours there catching tadpoles, crayfish, and other creepy crawlers. Although she had a sort of follower aspect to her, she had a stubborn streak, but so did I. Once my aunt told us that we fought like sisters, but we would both just laugh it off, neither of us believing her. Looking back now, she was right. We were more like sisters than grandmother and granddaughter. As we both grew older, I had to go to the creek alone. No matter where I went around her house or whom I took with me, it wasn't the same. It was like the birds sang their best songs when she was there to listen. I was just a stranger to the birds, someone who only would get the second-best songs. My grandmother as a child had been taught to be afraid of horses. We never went to the pasture to see them; unfortunately, this was one time we would never share together. I would go and pick grass for the horses to eat. As I became more familiar with the horses, I got to meet and get to know the owners of them, too. The owner of one of the horses became my lifelong best friend; she would be the one who would open my eyes to the possibility of riding and owning a magnificent beast of my own. Over the next three years, I learned how to ride safely and soon became a happy horse owner. Still saddened, I could not have my two most cherished loved ones together, my grandmother and my horse. I soon lost the close feelings I once had with my grandmother. I still stayed with my grandmother every chance I got, but I remember feeling something growing and stretching us further apart from one another. I could not have guessed then what I know now. I will never forget "The Day" in late winter of 1991. It was one of those spectacular winter days. The winter birds were chirping, the morning sun sparkled through the tree branches, and the frost and sunbeams danced with each other in the horizon. I had spent the morning at the bard feeding and cleaning up after the horses. Feeling cold, I wrapped up and headed off to my grandmother's house. When I reached the basement door, I found it to be locked as usual. I began to knock. Within a minute or two, I heard the window above me opening. I stepped back out from under the overhang so I could see my grandmother. I did not see her, but all of a sudden I felt cold, icy water dumping down on me. I looked up and saw her closing the window. Most twelve-year-olds would have run for help, but my independent, strong, and pragmatic determination kept me from doing so. I would not let my hurt feelings get in front of me now. It was either for me to get in or get sick. First, I went around to every door to see if by chance one would be unlocked, but unfortunately nothing was open. Second, I sat down to think of another way to get in because obviously she wouldn't let me in. Then I knew what I had to do. I had to break one of the kitchen door's windowpanes out and then reach in and turn the inside knob. Looking the windowpanes on the door over, I knew the bottom right pane was the one that needed to come out. So with a fast, accurate blow with my hand, I hit the center of the glass and broke it, sending glass fragments across the floor. Once inside, I started to clean the wound that was now open just below my thumb on my right hand. Luckily, this had been the only place on my hand that got hurt. After dressing my cut, I started to clean up the broken glass. When I had picked up all the glass, I proceeded upstairs to get into some dry clothes. Since there was only one useable bedroom, my grandmother and I shared a room together. I do not know why I didn't give my grandmother the answer to her question when she looked up from her reading material and asked how I got all wet. I guess it was because I knew she was dead serious about her question and didn't think it was best to tell her. Later that day I told my parents what had happened and then helped my dad put in a new pane of glass. I think it was hard for my father to believe his sweet, never-did-anything-wrong-or-hateful mother would do anything like she had. A year passed before we were told by the doctor what was the matter. My dearest, most closest friend, my grandmother, had Alzheimer's disease. It is a deadly disease that affects the brain and eats away at its tissues, causing the person to slowly lose all memory and die. Today, my grandmother lives with my parents and me, and it feels more like I have a younger sibling across the hall from me than my grandmother. She gets scared of not knowing what to say or how to answer people so she hides in her room all day, unless no one is home or someone goes in and gets her when everyone is home. I don't know exactly what she does in there, but the curiosity within me makes me peek in every once in awhile. The times I do, she is either trying to read, moving things around, or running her hands over the little treasures I placed on a table for her, but mostly she sleeps. I guess that's her way of finding peace of mind, or maybe it's boredom. A lot of people who talk to her face to face or on the telephone have a hard time believing that she had Alzheimer's because of her ability to still make up stories or lie. For a long time the lying hurt me a lot. Why would my closest loved one lie to me? Now I know she, too, is new to this. Together we will make these next years the best we can. Every time I see the pinpoint scar on my right hand I will always think of "The Day," and how much I love my grandmother.
by Christine Cullen
Last updated: July 14, 1999
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