Just for background info, I wrote this piece when I was assigned by my english teacher to write a non-fiction narrative about what I did, or had previously done, over holiday break with my family. It had a length limit, so it doesn't live up to what I had hoped because I had to cut out the "less important parts", which mostly was some mediocre dialogue. I hope its okay cause I'm being graded on it, but as with most of my writing I am a horrible judge of my own work. Enjoy.
When Purpose Dies
Just after Christmas this year, my family and I took a car ride down to Medford, Wisconsin. It wasn’t by any means the first trip we had made to Medford this year. There had been many similar trips, often only involving two or three family members, all to visit Grandma Klinner, my Mom’s mother, who had been recently placed in assisted living, at a building called Our House. The events leading up to this placement are tragic and, although it’s probably not the most appropriate term, action-packed. So much so that it could be made into a movie—one of those heart-touching, “feel-good” movies, although there was nothing that made me feel good about it at all.
As I walked up to the building (a relatively small, one floor deal), I admired the beautiful scenery in which so much misery lay. There was freshly fallen snow all over, which blended nicely with the building’s soft appearance. Surrounding the whole area was a forest, in which deer and other animals lived, and the residents of Our House had probably seen a few of these through their windows.
All five of us—my Dad, my Mom, Ben, David, and I—walked into the cozy little place which my Grandma now called home. We had barely gotten through both doors when Grandma came running—or rather; walking as fast as she could—out to meet us in the main room. We were ushered down the hallway, and into her little bedroom.
“I saw your green van pull in, so I rushed out to meet you,” Grandma said happily.
“So you remembered that we were coming? I told you every day when I called for over a week that we were coming today,” replied my Mom, jumping from the good to the bad.
My Mom had picked up the habitual ritual of calling Grandma every day after her husband, my Grandpa, died of colon cancer last year. He was a very hard-working man, who had fought in World War II, finishing his term of duty in Europe early because of a combination of illness and night-blindness. Coming home to Medford, he founded his own insurance company called Klinner Insurance, and made a small fortune in the stock market. Unfortunately, this is about the extent of my knowledge about Grandpa Klinner. I could tell you many more intricacies of his life, but the fact is that I never knew him the way I should have. I was not mature enough before his death to understand the importance of creating a bond between the two of us, and now that he is gone I blame myself for the hole in my soul which his death has left behind.
“I knew that you had told me you were coming, but I couldn’t remember exactly when,” replied Grandma sadly, a note of shame hovering in her words.
She went on to tell us many things which she had already told us, but could not remember that she had already told us. She was, in fact, a victim of Alzheimer’s, and—at least according to my Mom—suffered from some other mental illness or illnesses, which caused her to be a pack-rat and could explain why she had not been a ‘normal’ mother to her children.
After Grandma told several stories—one about the montage on her wall, another about an African American girl in Chicago who told Grandma “I can’t come to work that day, that’s pushin’ day!”—she began to talk about the assisted living home.
“You know, as much as I don’t like it here, I can’t say they don’t keep us busy. Every day they have activities planned from when I wake up ‘til when I go to sleep. I try to go to all of them because I think that it will set a good example for the others here,” said Grandma. “And the food is excellent. But I miss my house. And I don’t want anyone taking it away from me while I’m in here.” She then changed subject, saying “I don’t want to live much longer. I had better not live to be 100, like Aunt Ruth did. I hurt so much every day, all over my body.” Suddenly, after making that statement, she broke into tears. “I don’t know why I’m here,” she sobbed, “I hate it so much; I don’t even want to live any more.”
“I know, I know,” my Mom said tenderly, “But as much as you hate losing your independence, life is a lot easier, and in many ways, nicer here than it would be alone at home. You’re not so lonely any more, and you never have to think about cooking, cleaning, or doing any other household chores.”
Because of her Alzheimer’s, Grandma could not legally drive. She was diagnosed sometime around Grandpa’s death, and from that time until she was placed in the assisted living home she had taken up walking around town to wherever she might want to go. Medford is a small town, so even at the age of eighty-three she was able to walk downtown every day after Grandpa’s death. It was this walking which led to her injury and, therefore, having to find a bed in Our House. She was walking from her house to the downtown area one day, when, as she was walking across the street at a cross walk with a light telling her to go, she was hit by a car, which was being driven by a man who was talking on his cell-phone at the time. She had a broken toe and severe (for her age) bruising of both legs, although she was very fortunate that the car had not been going quick. My Mom tried to put a positive spin on it, calling it “God’s way of getting her to go to an assisted living home,” because her children had been asking her to for a while yet she didn’t want to.
During this whole conversation I just sat in Grandma’s armchair, staring intently at her, occasionally answering questions that Grandma posed, or interjecting an interesting tidbit into the predominantly one-sided conversation. After what felt like forever, but was really more like forty-five minutes, Grandma decided she wanted to go shopping with Mom and visit her house for some personal items. We all walked out of the building together, holding doors for Grandma, and helped her climb into the van, which was a very difficult task for her to do by herself, especially in the winter.
As we drove out of the small lot, Grandma asked me “Have I told you the story of the Black lady who worked for me in Chicago?”
