I squat down in front of her, say “Hi Grandma, it’s Jennifer” and she raises her head. When I come to see Grandma Gene, she’s slumped over in her wheelchair. And while witnessing this stage is often bittersweet, it is the sweetness that stays with me and makes my heart smile. I imagine it’s just what happens as the body and mind do what they do. The way they move, speak, and blink more slowly – seemingly with little self-consciousness. Perhaps most people resemble each other as this cycle of life is winding down. But otherwise, the signposts that she’s nearing the finish line in this body actually resemble theirs. The difference is that my grandmother really is in her 90s. As my grandma’s physical and mental capacities shift, I’m reminded of both my mom and my partner Kate’s final journeys, when they seemed to age many decades in mere weeks due to cancer. This moment and many others that could be sad or melancholy have actually been endearing. I kiss her cheek softly for what may be the last time. But at her current stage of life, any connection is welcomed by me. I laugh to myself because “pigeon” isn’t a pet name Grandma Gene has called me before, and certainly is not the choice bird for a compliment.
We touch our foreheads together and I look into her eyes over the top of my glasses. As my grandma sits in her wheelchair, I lean in to say goodbye before I return home – 3,000 miles away from room #39 at Oak Hill Manor.
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