Not sure what made me write this down...
I have carried with me a manuscript, a story that has been with me forever, but I was always afraid to write it down. Perhaps I was worried that this story is not mine to tell or maybe I am still afraid that I will fall pitifully short and fail to do it justice; to do her justice in the retelling. These memories, however are uniquely mine as are the ways she continues to inspire me everyday�
My grandmother is crystallized in my memory as being akin to the old Hollywood movie stars; she�s right up there with Betty Davis and Marilyn Monroe. Growing up you are inevitably asked a thousand times who you admire most, who is your inspiration, what do you want to be when you grow up� my answer was always my grandmother.
My earliest memories of her are the quintessential ones: like the smell of her perfume, Guerelian, or the way she whistled to signal her entrance into a room. She was humble in her larger than life presence and I, like every hot blooded man she knew, fell madly in love with her. I grew up with the luxury of knowing all four of my grandparents, each of whom hold very special places in my heart, but I spent the most time with my Grandma Peggy. She is my mother Margaret�s mother, also named Margaret� I was precariously close to becoming the next Margaret in the line, but providence intervened, okay not providence, just the name Katie. Back to Grandma Peggy; when I was little we lived close to my mother�s parents in an isolated part of rural New Jersey (yes such places still do exist in the garden state) and my father traveled constantly on business or out on one of his many adventures, leaving my mother home alone. Logically she did what any woman would do: she called up my grandmother and the two of them would spend all day with me as their personal little Cupie Doll- I ate up the attention voraciously.
I would accompany my grandmother to work often, helping her run her antique jewelry business. I would spend the weekend at the Plaza hotel with her; a much needed mental health vacation as she called it, pretending to be Eloise and staying up much too late. Most of the time though, I would simply watch her: I would spend hours watching her paint, put on her makeup, mingle with the other adults at a party, talk to my mother and simply watch the way she did everything with grace, intentionality and whimsy.
Then one day I came home from Kindergarten, I had recently turned six and my grandmother had been the star of the celebration ducking out mid-way and returning much to my wide eyed wonder dressed as a six foot Big Bird, and I began the long journey that would ultimately culminate in a better understanding of the woman whom I had idolized so much and in my own fore into adulthood. My grandfather, whom my grandmother had remained friends with and loved dearly even after their divorce, was at my empty house waiting for me that day. He told me that Grandma Peggy was sick and that my mom was at the hospital with her�. And so began our journey.
My grandmother grew up as a part of a large French-Canadian family in Quebec. I adored her crazy ghost stories and tales from her highly superstitious childhood. My great grandmother Sarah had seven children and had lost all but four to illness; my grandmother was precariously close to having been another. She had scarlet fever as a young child and miraculously pulled through it without any major repercussions except for one damaged valve in her heart. This was the valve that years later would throw off a clot that would settle in the left lobe of her brain and cause a massive stroke in a perfectly healthy sixty three year old woman whom had never touched alcohol or cigarettes even. She had had the stroke home alone at her boyfriend�s house and was taken to the hospital too late for any of the massive damage to be reversed; my mother a nurse and the staff at the hospital honestly did not think she was going to live. Miraculously and in true form she did live, but it was a trying uphill battle for years. She eventually left the hospital and went to a rehabilitation center not far from where we lived, and so began another chapter in my childhood, her life and my mother�s.
My mom and I spent two years and countless later stays at the Kestler Institute visiting her everyday. The stroke had left her without the use of the entire right side of her body and little or no speech. She had to learn to feed herself, learn to maneuver a wheelchair with just one functioning arm, and countless other tasks that the doctors had minimal hope in her ever mastering again. During this time I made countless friends at the rehabilitation center; I spent my afternoons split between helping the speech therapists, occupational therapists, physical therapists etc. work with my grandmother and the other part of the time, when my mom and grandmother didn�t want me to watch her struggle so terribly, I would spend in the cafeteria or common rooms socializing with the vary diverse group of patients there. I had made friends with a middle aged black man who had lost both his legs in Vietnam and a teenage girl who was in a halo after a terrible car accident that robbed her of a senior year of high school. These interactions have indelibly shaped me as a person, but back to my grandmother. Eventually the decision was made, much to my father�s chagrin, that my grandmother would move in with us; wheelchair and all. My mother and I would be her caregivers and she would continue to work on some rehab at home; the people at the Kestler Institute were utterly amazed that she had made it thus far, so home she went with us� for the next eight and a half years of all our lives, she would live with us.
During this time I learned about the woman whom she had been in her former life, back in the days when she was a model and a Copa Cabanna girl in the USO, touring Europe with Bob Hope. I learned about the trials and tribulations of her relationship with my grandfather. I heard all about her philosophies on life from my mother who loved to repeat her famous tag line, �when the load gets too heavy, set it down.� Above all, I watched her maintain dignity and grace and poise trapped in a body that had betrayed her, without speech or the ability to be autonomous. I witnessed her teach herself to draw again with her left hand; she was the most talented artist I will ever know, she drew better with her left hand than many of us could ever dream of doing with our dominant hand. Finally after eight years and countless changes in my family that included my parents divorce, the death of both my grandfathers, the birth of my little brother and countless moves, I watched as my grandmother told my single working mother with a 17 year old daughter and a seven year old son that it was time to let her go.
My mom always jokes that when she was growing up my grandmother would jest as she moaned about wanting a face lift, holding the skin on her flawless face taught, that my mother should take her out back and shoot her if she ever became terminally ill. This was obviously not what transpired after her stroke, but eventually after many years of her fighting her hardest and living with our family for years, her health began to deteriorate to the point where my mom could no longer take care of her at home. We all knew that my grandmother would not go on living very long in a nursing home or back at the hospital, but my mom was burning the candle at both ends trying to run a household by herself and take care of my brother and I. My grandmother even in her devastated physical state knew this and in her own way told my mother that the load was too heavy and she had to set it down� six months after moving out of our house, she finally passed away. It�s a very difficult thing for my mother and I to talk about, but we both know that my grandmother would not have wanted the end to be drawn out at home.
Today I look back on my unconventional upbringing and the huge hurdles my mother, brother and I have had to tackle and I really would not want it any other way, especially when it comes to having had the privilege of living with my grandmother for eight years. I could recall story after story about my grandmother or attempt futilely to explain the ways in which she has and will always continue to inspire me, but I think that her legacy speaks for itself.
I think I�ll leave you with my grandmother�s daily routine during the best years of her health living with us�. Every morning my grandmother, who would joke when she was healthy that she was vain, would wake up and perform the ritual that was really her way of feeling like she had dignity and control in her life. Even after her stroke my grandmother was devastatingly beautiful; it would be easy to harp on her physical beauty if it weren�t for her sense of humor and amazing inner beauty and strength� but back to her routine. The stroke had basically made my grandmother�s hair fall out, so she insisted on wearing a perfectly coiffed blonde bob wig at all times, even in her sleep. In the mornings she would, with her left hand, make sure her bob was just right and then apply her blush, lipstick and perfume. She always wore a silk button down dress shirt, and the classiest silk pull on chinos that we could find (believe me it was a quest to find such a thing) because they allowed her, after much practice to dress herself and that little bit of autonomy was very important to her. My mother tried to put all my grandmother�s jewelry away in the safety deposit box after the stroke, but my grandmother insisted on being decked out every day. In the hospital we all humored her and gave her fake pearls to wear everyday, but the second she got home, she made it very clear in her unique way with her exceptionally limited speech that she wanted the real deal and pronto, so we got the pearls and the diamonds out of the safety deposit box and she wore them every day right up until the day she died. If she were alive today she would joke that this was all a testament to her vanity and stubbornness, but I�d have to argue that it�s a testament to her amazing will and self preservation that I try to emulate every day.