Tuesday
Apr272010
Sometimes, Holding On To Your Dreams Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Family sometimes seem a dark and heavily material business. These people who escort you through your early life from your violent and wet beginnings grow, too. They change. They become things other than what you would have recognized at three and seven and sixteen.
You grow and change and become things, eating up monstrous possibility, and there is just so much of that possibility for you that you maybe don't notice the slow slip of time against your grandparents' skin, how their flesh whithers against their fingerbones, how their eyes start to lose potency, how they now lean on your own mother to sort out the confusion of early senility.
It comes clearer, though, at thirty-seven, when brown patches and fine lines start appearing on your own cheeks. No one's face, not even your own, reflects the photo albums you hold in your head anymore, and curiosity takes on a morbid edge you'd almost prefer not to explore. It was this morbid curiosity that had me asking how my maternal grandparents were doing at a family supper the other night. It has been a long time since I've been home to visit.
"Your grandmother has more of those dreams now," my mother said.
My grandmother has these dreams at night, and the part of her brain that knows how to tell them apart from reality has whithered like her fingers. She believes them.
"What has she been dreaming now?" I said.
"She said that even though Hannah puts on a brave face when she visits, she knew that Hannah was very sad. Your grandmother was really upset."
"What? Why?"
"She thinks that Hannah is slowly dying. And then she asked me how your aunt and uncle were handling Hannah, because she also thinks the doctors told them Hannah was slow when she was born," she said.
"But Hannah gets nineties in school."
"I know."
"So, grandma thinks Hannah is both dying and a mentally handicapped person now?"
"Yes. I told her that Hannah is absolutely fine, but she's still worried."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. Hannah is smart, driven, musically talented, and spends an evening every week hanging out with her increasingly confused grandparents. I wondered if she knows what her grandmother thinks.
"Remember how she thinks she has a purse to give to me and feels bad because she lost it?" I said. "I'm sorry for laughing, but it's just so ridiculous."
"It's okay. I know," my mother said.
"Does she forget this stuff eventually? Or does she keep believing it?"
"She remembers."
My grandmother's waking and dream lives continue to collide. I want to believe that some of the dreams are good, but I only hear about the dreams that play out her fears and insecurities, now made real to her in waking life. Part of me hopes, and it seems strange to say so, that she experiences a disconnect from emotion now, that there is no longer much depth behind her worried hand-twisting. Otherwise, she can only lament the sadness of lost things and dying grandchildren.
Last years should be better than this, but it makes no difference. They aren't.
She is the only person I know for whom I wish no dreams at all.
You grow and change and become things, eating up monstrous possibility, and there is just so much of that possibility for you that you maybe don't notice the slow slip of time against your grandparents' skin, how their flesh whithers against their fingerbones, how their eyes start to lose potency, how they now lean on your own mother to sort out the confusion of early senility.
It comes clearer, though, at thirty-seven, when brown patches and fine lines start appearing on your own cheeks. No one's face, not even your own, reflects the photo albums you hold in your head anymore, and curiosity takes on a morbid edge you'd almost prefer not to explore. It was this morbid curiosity that had me asking how my maternal grandparents were doing at a family supper the other night. It has been a long time since I've been home to visit.
"Your grandmother has more of those dreams now," my mother said.
My grandmother has these dreams at night, and the part of her brain that knows how to tell them apart from reality has whithered like her fingers. She believes them.
"What has she been dreaming now?" I said.
"She said that even though Hannah puts on a brave face when she visits, she knew that Hannah was very sad. Your grandmother was really upset."
"What? Why?"
"She thinks that Hannah is slowly dying. And then she asked me how your aunt and uncle were handling Hannah, because she also thinks the doctors told them Hannah was slow when she was born," she said.
"But Hannah gets nineties in school."
"I know."
"So, grandma thinks Hannah is both dying and a mentally handicapped person now?"
"Yes. I told her that Hannah is absolutely fine, but she's still worried."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. Hannah is smart, driven, musically talented, and spends an evening every week hanging out with her increasingly confused grandparents. I wondered if she knows what her grandmother thinks.
"Remember how she thinks she has a purse to give to me and feels bad because she lost it?" I said. "I'm sorry for laughing, but it's just so ridiculous."
"It's okay. I know," my mother said.
"Does she forget this stuff eventually? Or does she keep believing it?"
"She remembers."
My grandmother's waking and dream lives continue to collide. I want to believe that some of the dreams are good, but I only hear about the dreams that play out her fears and insecurities, now made real to her in waking life. Part of me hopes, and it seems strange to say so, that she experiences a disconnect from emotion now, that there is no longer much depth behind her worried hand-twisting. Otherwise, she can only lament the sadness of lost things and dying grandchildren.
Last years should be better than this, but it makes no difference. They aren't.
She is the only person I know for whom I wish no dreams at all.
Reader Comments (8)
Oh my gosh, yes. My mother just went through this with her mother. It made me afraid of being old - and my grandmother, in terms of health, had a life just about as uneventfully blessed as anyone could hope for.
This was beautifully expressed.
What's even harder is when it's not just happening to your grandparents but your parents.
Reality can be a hard thing to face. Dreams too, apparently. I've never heard of this particular expression of dementia before; although I have a teenager who, all his life, has shocked me by insisting I've said something I am absolutely sure I didn't say— would never think, let alone say. I suspect he was having trouble telling his dreams from his waking life.
I will never forget the time when my grandma started confusing day and night. At first it was sort of funny to get phone calls at two in the morning with her on the other end saying, "Hey! Why is it so damn dark at your house?!" (She lived across the street.) After a few weeks of it, it became the saddest thing I've ever experienced.
Your words coupled with that photo are breaking my heart. Yes. May your grandma's dreams be only pleasant ones.
I really don't have words right now but I wanted to say something. I feel so completely selfish because you brought up something I hadn't thought about. The fact that our family is growing and aging as we do. I still see my grandparents, aunts, and uncles the same way I did thirty years ago. I'm watching them age, but not really seeing it. I get so wrapped up in the now, work, kids, life, that I'm not paying attention. I hope that pleasant dreams find your grandmother.
Oh Schmutzie. That photo is one of the most beautiful and sad and wonderful photos I've ever seen. I love it and I want to hug your grandma.
xox
My grandmother does this, too. She'll wake up convinced that one of her children has killed themselves, or that the eye doctor told her that she has cancer. She'll think that the lead inspector came to the house and told her the entire kitchen is contaminated. It's like a never ending fever dream.
Sumptuous prose, evocative photography, as ever. I hardly ever slow down to say so, but almost always think so. I'm with edenland: makes a person want to hug her.