Young Writers Society

Nana wasn’t awake long; a few minutes of repeated questions and banal phrases before slipping off to sleep in her wheelchair, elbows resting on a wooden TV tray.

“Did you eat?” she inquires, “Why are your hands cold?”

“I’ve eaten and I have bad circulation, Nana.” I reply.

It’s the same greeting I’ve had since childhood, the same answers I’ve given since I could speak. But Nana’s intensity is gone, the worry lines evaporated from her face, and I know she has already forgotten what she asked me.

When will the questions disappear altogether?

She sips the dregs from her Jell-O. I hold her hand while the nurse injects another steroid into her abdomen. I watch her eyes water and I want to wipe away the tear, but I’m too scared of hurting her more than she already is.

There is nothing to say; nothing she’ll remember.

I stop her from taking off her back brace. She doesn’t remember the spinal surgery from eight weeks ago that left her confused in the head and weak in the body. Bound to a hospital bed and a creaky wheelchair, trapping her like a fly in a spider’s web, unable to move her legs. Moved from the hospital to this rehab center because she didn’t get any better, soon to be relocated to an assisted living facility because she’s getting worse-even though it kills our family to do it.

This isn’t who she used to be, who I want her to be, who I miss so much it hurts to breathe.

She taught me how to sew, make pasta sauce, and operate a Swiffer without slipping. She used to walk with me to the nearby 7-11 and grow carrots in her garden. She told me I was special, the granddaughter who relied on her, and more than she had ever hoped for.

Nana’s eyes are half closed and fluttering. Is she asleep or awake? Does it even matter which?

I tell the nurse to leave the door open, just in case.

Nana came to Florida with us once. She accidentally ate all of my gummy bear vitamins and purposefully refused sunscreen. Her skin became red as a screaming toddler from sunburn and copious amounts of nutrients, though Nana claimed it was only “windburn.” Two years later, eyes sharp with sentimentality, she proudly displayed the one-pound gummy bear I bequeathed her in the foyer. I wonder what’s become of it now.

She stirs again and starts fingering a tear in her shirt. It’s probably older than me, white and brown in the lucid patterns of the 1970s that all older women seem to favor.

“It’s torn.” Nana says blankly, her shaking finger poking though the hole.

“It’s probably just from the brace, Nana. Do you want to see a picture from Florida?” I question, pulling out my cell phone to distract her.

“Oh that’s cute! I’d like to go someday.” she exclaims, pointing at a scene from our last trip, “Who is that?” she asks.

“That’s me, Nana.”

She didn’t recognize me. That’s never happened before. I choke back a sob. She can’t see me cry. She feels bad enough when I see her tears.

I was 10 years old the first time it happened. My grandparents came out to dinner with us after Nana’s knee replacement. It hadn’t gone as well as we’d hoped, and she needed help walking to the bathroom. I waited for her by the mirror.

“Look what’s become of me.” She bemoaned, washing her hands, “I’m so ugly, I look like my mother.”

“I’ve never seen your mother” I squeaked, “but you look really pretty.”

Nana didn’t seem to hear me.

“Remember Ginny, you can’t trust anybody. Only your family: your parents, sister, and your grandparents.” She turned to me then. “I want you to remember that when I’m gone.”

She cried then. I didn’t know what to do; I just hugged her, the same as always, and hoped that it would be enough. Seven years later, I still can’t ease her pain. The only difference is I know what it feels like to lose her.

“Do you want lemonade?” She snaps out of her stupor for a moment.

“No thanks, Nana. You should drink it. Your skin is flaking.”

At least she asked, at least I haven’t lost that yet.

Nana always told me I was closer to her than any of her other grandchildren. She said I was hers, because she raised me. That’s true, from my mothers return to work till the age of 5, I spent more time with her than anyone else. She made me broccoli and cheese soup and let me watch her iron. I loved the scent of the starch she used. Even after I started school, Nana came over every Monday. She always brought pasta with homemade sauce and bagels. In a society obsessed with thigh gaps, Nana always thought I was too skinny.

Nana looks up at smiles and me then. She asks me to hold her hand. I move my chair closer so I can reach. I watch the blood move in and out of her palms, draining from paper-thin veins and dehydrated skin, returning far too slowly. I watch the pieces of her slip away, knowing I’ll never get them back, knowing I’ll never hear all of her stories, knowing, knowing I can never begin to thank her for everything she’s done for me.

When I lost my first baby tooth, Nana gave me a green ceramic box shaped like a postmarked letter.

“What’s this for, Nana?” I asked, stroking the smooth surface with wonderment.

“It’s for your baby teeth. “ she said, looking up to the sky with wisdom I didn’t quite understand, “that way you’ll never lose a single bit of yourself.”

Staring at her, helpless, slipping in and out of a doze, I remember the little green box. Because of it, I still have all of my old teeth.

When we die, our lives are supposed to flash before our eyes. But what if Nana forgets everything? What if her baby teeth are falling out too quickly to save? What if I can’t help her remember?

This story doesn’t have a moral, lesson, or ending. This story doesn’t have anything worth reading. Because soon, there won’t be enough to fill a single page.