Friday afternoon, before I went to dinner, I picked up my brother and we drove over to the Old Folks' Home where my grandma lives.

I meant to go Wednesday, but I couldn't.  I wasn't ready.  Then Thursday, but I knew I wouldn't be staying for dinner and I couldn't look at my grandmother on Thanksgiving and either 1) pretend like it was a normal day and not mention the holiday and hope maybe she is too far gone to realize the truth; or 2) tell her Happy Thanksgiving and then leave her alone to eat whatever crap they were serving up while I went home and ate around the table with my family.  So Friday. 

Friday afternoon I went with my brother to see my grandmother.  I just realized that father, mother, and brother all end in "ther" and daughter has the 'h' and the 't' reversed at the end.  I smell a sexist conspiracy, one that doesn't even allow us girls a proper suffix until we spit out a baby.

My dad warned us that we wouldn't be recognized.  That she wouldn't be able to get more than two, maybe three words out.  That she might be violent.  Rude.  Mean.  He said that she wasn't herself.  That there was barely a glimpse of my Mimi in there anymore.  That she isn't sleeping and she is hopped up on morphine and has to be strapped down sometimes because she is so unpredictable.

I was ready for the worst. The worst has been haunting me for months.  Years, really.  I joke that my grandmother has been dying for the last dozen years.  It's only funny because it's true.  She just keeps pulling through. 

My dad told me not to expect much.
I didn't.

My dad was dead wrong.

When Brian and I got there, Mimi was sleeping.  Tiny and curled up.  Bed six inches from the floor because sometimes she forgets that she can't just jump out of bed and start her day each morning.  She can't weigh more than 80 pounds.  The end of the lumps under the covers not four feet away from the top of her head.  I know this is my fate.  I'm horrified of the days that arthritis has me crippled and curled.  It's starting already.  I'm shrinking.  I'm almost an inch and a half shorter than I was when I was married 10.5 years ago.  Mimi told me to remember my height and weight on my wedding day, that it will be important someday.  I pretend it's not inevitable.  I pump calcium in my body.  I stand up straight.  Stretch.  Strengthen.  Someday I'll be four feet small too.

Mimi was sleeping when we got there and I was relieved.  I was relieved I could leave a note and walk out.  Pretending she will believe me when I say that I'll see her soon and I was sorry I missed her.
I grabbed a notepad from the dresser.  The same notepad that I found a half written letter addressed to me last time I was there.  Mimi used to write to me three or four times a week when I was in college.  Two or three times during grad school.  Once or twice a month after that, after she moved into The Home.  She would clip coupons and crossword puzzles for me, comic strips that she thought were funny.  I wish I would have searched her room for her scissors on Friday.  I didn't even think about it.  I'll ask my brother to see about them next week.  They were tiny, smaller than haircut scissors.  Ever since I remember she's had them on the mantle, at the ready for anything that needed to be cut, and there was always something needed to be cut.  Sometimes Mimi would cut the flowers she liked out of the Burpee catalog and paste them on top of plain writing paper, making her own stationary.  You would never know twisted hands cut those flowers.  They were perfect.
One of the social work agencies I monitor is out in the suburbs, and the train station I use to get there and back is right across from the Burpee plant.  I was heartbroken when I saw it.  Just a huge industrial standard maize colored big old brick box of a thing sitting out in Warminster, Pa.  I'll stick to the catalog, thank you.

I grabbed a notepad from the dresser but couldn't find a pen.  I begged one off a nurse at the station, and wrote something like:
Hi Mimi!
Brian and I stopped by to see you but you were taking a nap.  We love you very much and we'll see you soon.
Much love,
Lora.
In perfect cursive, hardly my own but easily read.  Just in case she can still read.

Mimi woke up when we came back to put it by the bed.  She was thrilled to see us.  I don't think she said our names, but she knew right off who we were.  Asked questions about what we've been doing.  What we are studying.  She was confused a bit about the year, but we didn't correct her.  If she's happy thinking her grandkids are home from college, so be it.  I hate when people correct her.  Who gives a fuck?  Stop asking her how old she is and what year it is and what kid goes with what son.  My dad does that and it makes me furious.  Maybe that's why she's so volatile when he's there.  Let her enjoy the moment.  Let her feel loved.  Let her pretend times are good again.

Eventually it got out that we were done with school and she was so happy.  She laughed and clapped when we told her we were both graduated and working.  That we both had families.  That I own a home.

"We did it!",she said while clasping her hands and shaking them on either side of her face.  "We did it!", she said to the skies.  To her husband.  My grandfather who died nearly three years ago.
"You sure did!", we answered.

She couldn't stop giggling at the way we looked.  She couldn't believe that we were related to her.  She told us we were so good looking and she said she was so happy that her family isn't ugly.  Mimi always thought she was terrible looking.  She always said she was afraid that her children and grandchildren would be too. 

Mimi has lasted so long because she is afraid of death.  She said so to me.  She said so time and time again to Brian.  Her God is an angry one.  A vengeful one.  A Midwestern Methodist bastard terror of a Lord who has been waiting over ninety years to send her to hell because she wasn't good enough or smart enough.  Because she wasn't enough.  Because she fell in love with the wrong man and married him anyway.
It seems she has overcome that.  She told us that God has come to her.  That he comes to her often.  She touches the side of her head when she speaks of it, she puts her fingers to the spot behind her temple, above her ear. 
The "God Spot", the temporal lobe (Google it later, it's really interesting).  It's the part of the brain that lights up when people believe they are communicating with God.  When people are communicating with God.  Same difference, really.  Whether through prayer or meditation or whatever.  Go ahead and say a prayer/send out positive energy/meditate/whatever and pay attention to the inside of your head.  See?  Neat, right?  My ears actually perk.  My left one twitches.  I remember getting in trouble once in Sunday School for that.  The teacher thought I was trying to be funny by wiggling my ears.  But ears are just close to the part of the brain that fires during prayer.  I told her Jesus is doing it.  She didn't like that answer.  I didn't like her.

Mimi has no way of knowing that.  Mimi has made peace with God. 
And that gives me peace.

Mimi could only get four or five words out at a time before she started to slur, but it was enough.  I've known her since I was born.  She doesn't have to say much for me to know what she means, what she needs, what she thinks.  She told us that her brain is still working.  The thoughts and the memories and the words and all our lives are still up there.  They just can't come out the same way anymore.  That's okay because there isn't anyone around to listen anymore.  We've all grown up and moved away and created lives for ourselves.  And we are all happy.  My dad and one of his brothers see her now and then, she didn't ask about them.  My other uncle lives across the country.  I told her I was out there this summer.  I told her that he is happy and healthy and well.  That we are in touch.  I couldn't explain to her how.  That we both have blogs and we send emails to one another over the telephone.  That my phone is called a Curve and his is called a Droid.  That phones are called something other than phones and we hardly talk on them anymore but we are in touch now more than ever.  But she was so happy that we were in touch.  We always were her favorites.  Her first born son and her first born grandchild.  Add to that, I'm the only girl in the entire family.  She never spoiled me, but she made sure I always had everything a girl needs.  Including firm words about education and child bearing and independence and love.  Go, wait, ensure, deeply.  That is how I was instructed to do it.  I tried my best.  I think I did okay.  She's proud, anyway.

The last thing Mimi said to me was that she loves me.  And she needed a nap, she is tired and needs to rest often.  I told her to sleep tight, and leaned in to give her a kiss.  Her mouth went funny so she said no kisses so I gave her one right square on her God Spot.  She smiled and snuggled down under the covers.

That's probably the last I'll see her alive.  I have no plans to get up to Erie anytime soon.  I'm glad I got to tuck her in.  I'm glad she went to sleep smiling.  It's a nice way to remember her.