Goldfish
I spent the last three days helping my grandparents move off the family farm and into an assisted-living residence.
It was a rather quick decision ... Grandpa came down with pneumonia right after Christmas, went into the hospital, then into rehabilitation. Grandma stayed with my parents while my grandpa recovered. While he was away, my parents realized my grandma couldn't live by herself. So collaboratively they decided that assisted living would be the next step.
When I arrived Friday night, racing the snowstorm into Milwaukee, I found them and their furniture moved into the equivalent of a very luxurious dormitory room. It had a big window, a big bathroom, a refrigerator, microwave, sink, a modest closet and some cabinets.
Grandma and Grandpa actually occupy two of these units, directly across the hall from each other. They've made one into a sitting area, and the other into a room for sleeping.
When I arrived, Grandma was sitting in one of their dining-room chairs in the middle of the living space. Grandpa was in the brown armchair.
They looked completely out of context. I'm used to seeing them against the warm colors and dark wood trim of the farmhouse, with twenty-four acres and a dilapidated barn as a backdrop. Here, they were like cutouts against apartment-wall white. There they were, careworn and storied, inhabiting a room without a soul, without history.
Sure, there was the curio topped the decorative plate depicting the Last Supper, the cedar chest my grandpa bought my grandma for $35 while they were dating, and the dining room table I've never before seen without a tablecloth. But it wasn't the same.
I sat on the floor and popped medicine out of individual pillow-packs into a prescription container. Mom, who was putting pills into the days-of-the-week dispenser, asked Grandpa what time of day he takes his anti-depressants. I didn't know he was taking anti-depressants.
We talked about their goldfish. At the farmhouse, Grandma and Grandpa have ten goldfish in a tank on the kitchen counter, descendents of the goldfish that lived in the pond in my parents' back yard a few summers ago. None have names, except the one who is missing a tail. He's "Stubby," and swims by twisting his whole body back and forth.
My parents asked whether I'd like to care for one of Grandma and Grandpa's goldfish.
"Sure," I said. "I'll take it to work. I'll have a goldfish on my desk like C.J. Cregg from The West Wing. I'll name it 'Pica' and ask my colleagues to feed it while I'm out of town. Can it live over a weekend without food?"
They say goldfish adapt to the size of their environment. A goldfish in a fish bowl will stay small, but one in a pond will grow larger.
My grandparents are like goldfish.
When they lived on the farm, they moved from room to room, albeit, Grandma moved a little slowly with her dodgy hip, and Grandpa's emphysema meant he had to store up energy to get from the kitchen to the bedroom or bathroom. He breathes with the help of an oxygen condenser, and we used to joke about finding Grandpa by following his tail. Grandma used to navigate the steep cellar stairs to get food out of the freezer, used to walk down the driveway to get the mail and the newspaper.
They moved slowly, there. But they fit, and they knew every corner of that house.
This weekend, I watched Grandpa struggle to cross the hall. I helped Grandma find the bathroom. My mom and I wheeled them both down to check their mailbox. We showed them the dining room.
We hung family pictures and paintings in the living room and the bedroom. We hung my great-grandmother's prayer plaque over Grandma's bed. We hung the lady bug tiles my cousin gave my Grandma for Christmas over her bureau.
We stocked the fridge, brought them yellow-and-red tulips in a vase and assembled a baker's rack for the kitchen.
When we left, they seemed a little less out-of-context.
We'll have to plan an estate sale. We'll have to sell the farm.
We have plans to sneak Stubby in as their pet. I have plans to reserve the party room (which has a stove) and bake molasses cookies with Grandma and Grandpa.
I'm convinced the Buddhists have this end-of-life stuff better figured than those of us from other religions. The idea that attachment causes suffering always rings true to me at these times of transition. I'm attached to the farm. When I need a contemplative moment, it's the wide expanse of tilled soil I imagine. I'm attached to the idea of my grandparents as independent, maybe (if I'm honest) invincible. I'm attached to the smell of pesticide in the apple orchard. I'm attached to the illusion of Grandma baking pies, early in the morning.
I'm attached. I'm suffering.
I spent the last three days helping my grandparents move off the family farm and into an assisted-living residence.
It was a rather quick decision ... Grandpa came down with pneumonia right after Christmas, went into the hospital, then into rehabilitation. Grandma stayed with my parents while my grandpa recovered. While he was away, my parents realized my grandma couldn't live by herself. So collaboratively they decided that assisted living would be the next step.
When I arrived Friday night, racing the snowstorm into Milwaukee, I found them and their furniture moved into the equivalent of a very luxurious dormitory room. It had a big window, a big bathroom, a refrigerator, microwave, sink, a modest closet and some cabinets.
Grandma and Grandpa actually occupy two of these units, directly across the hall from each other. They've made one into a sitting area, and the other into a room for sleeping.
When I arrived, Grandma was sitting in one of their dining-room chairs in the middle of the living space. Grandpa was in the brown armchair.
They looked completely out of context. I'm used to seeing them against the warm colors and dark wood trim of the farmhouse, with twenty-four acres and a dilapidated barn as a backdrop. Here, they were like cutouts against apartment-wall white. There they were, careworn and storied, inhabiting a room without a soul, without history.
Sure, there was the curio topped the decorative plate depicting the Last Supper, the cedar chest my grandpa bought my grandma for $35 while they were dating, and the dining room table I've never before seen without a tablecloth. But it wasn't the same.
I sat on the floor and popped medicine out of individual pillow-packs into a prescription container. Mom, who was putting pills into the days-of-the-week dispenser, asked Grandpa what time of day he takes his anti-depressants. I didn't know he was taking anti-depressants.
We talked about their goldfish. At the farmhouse, Grandma and Grandpa have ten goldfish in a tank on the kitchen counter, descendents of the goldfish that lived in the pond in my parents' back yard a few summers ago. None have names, except the one who is missing a tail. He's "Stubby," and swims by twisting his whole body back and forth.
My parents asked whether I'd like to care for one of Grandma and Grandpa's goldfish.
"Sure," I said. "I'll take it to work. I'll have a goldfish on my desk like C.J. Cregg from The West Wing. I'll name it 'Pica' and ask my colleagues to feed it while I'm out of town. Can it live over a weekend without food?"
They say goldfish adapt to the size of their environment. A goldfish in a fish bowl will stay small, but one in a pond will grow larger.
My grandparents are like goldfish.
When they lived on the farm, they moved from room to room, albeit, Grandma moved a little slowly with her dodgy hip, and Grandpa's emphysema meant he had to store up energy to get from the kitchen to the bedroom or bathroom. He breathes with the help of an oxygen condenser, and we used to joke about finding Grandpa by following his tail. Grandma used to navigate the steep cellar stairs to get food out of the freezer, used to walk down the driveway to get the mail and the newspaper.
They moved slowly, there. But they fit, and they knew every corner of that house.
This weekend, I watched Grandpa struggle to cross the hall. I helped Grandma find the bathroom. My mom and I wheeled them both down to check their mailbox. We showed them the dining room.
We hung family pictures and paintings in the living room and the bedroom. We hung my great-grandmother's prayer plaque over Grandma's bed. We hung the lady bug tiles my cousin gave my Grandma for Christmas over her bureau.
We stocked the fridge, brought them yellow-and-red tulips in a vase and assembled a baker's rack for the kitchen.
When we left, they seemed a little less out-of-context.
We'll have to plan an estate sale. We'll have to sell the farm.
We have plans to sneak Stubby in as their pet. I have plans to reserve the party room (which has a stove) and bake molasses cookies with Grandma and Grandpa.
I'm convinced the Buddhists have this end-of-life stuff better figured than those of us from other religions. The idea that attachment causes suffering always rings true to me at these times of transition. I'm attached to the farm. When I need a contemplative moment, it's the wide expanse of tilled soil I imagine. I'm attached to the idea of my grandparents as independent, maybe (if I'm honest) invincible. I'm attached to the smell of pesticide in the apple orchard. I'm attached to the illusion of Grandma baking pies, early in the morning.
I'm attached. I'm suffering.
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