An Article by my Daughter

by Glenn N. Holliman

Recently my daughter in Virginia wrote of her grandmother, now aged 91, and in poor mental health.  Her thoughts and writing are so poignant that it seem appropriate to share them with the larger world.  My mother's condition is a issue for millions of families as the population of those suffering from this horrible condition increases.  Here is some reading for reflection on aging and generational changes.

A Stuffed Dog, Violets and the Titmice....

"There are two plants on the table by my front window.  Two African violets that I brought to my home last August.  They survived the nine hour drive from my grandmother's assisted living facility in Nashville.  One violet has purple blooms the other white.  My grandmother nurtured these violets, not in her apartment, but in the hallway window for all the tenth floor residents of McKendree Village to enjoy.  At her new facility, she won't need her violets.

"I want to go home," my grandmother pleaded with us from a wheelchair in the rehab center.  She had fallen again.  During her hospitalization, it was discovered she had a urinary tract infection prompting a round of antibiotics, a drug that seems to make her failing memory worse.  

"My doggie and I want to go home."  She touched a stuffed animal to her cheek.  "We are taking you home, Granny.  To a new place in Cookeville, just two miles from your daughter Becky's house.  Doesn't that sound like a good idea?"

"I want to die.  I need to go to the bathroom."

"Is that my husband?", Granny asked as my father left to bring around the car.  "No, Granny, that's your son."

"My son.  I have a son?  He's handsome but he needs to lose some weight.  I want to go home.  Will you take me home?"

When I was growing up my grandmother liked to feed two things, her family and the birds.  When I would visit for a week in the summer each morning we ate scrambled eggs, bacon and toast with fresh honey.  I would stare out the window at the feeder as Granny named the birds that joined us for breakfast.  Robins, goldfinches, blue jays, which she never cared for, and titmice.  Titmice.  The name always made me giggle.

"Mom, what's the name of that bird?" my daughter asked last December.  We had just put up a bird feeder. "A Carolina chickadee," I said, "or a black capped chickadee.  It's very difficult to tell them apart."

"How do you know that Mom?"  

As we cleaned out my grandmother's apartment and downsized her to a single room in a memory care facility, I was offered chairs, a desk, and a various assortment of knickknacks.  I refused those items and asked if I could have her African violets.  I would get them home safely.  Transplant them into larger pots. Pots with cute fish faces on them.  I would set them on the table in my front window.

They can sit with my daughters and watch the robins, goldfinches, blue jays, which my grandmother never cared for, and, of course the titmice." - GAH