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One of my favorite memories growing up was when I was five and had the Chicken Pox. You’d think it would be a time I wouldn’t look back on fondly. I mean, who actually reminisces about itchy blisters?
It wasn’t the pox that I liked, but it was sitting in our sun room for five itchy days wearing oven mitts with my grandmother, Nini, as she taught me all about birds. I can remember sitting in the quiet silence of the afternoon light as it made geometric shapes across the tan carpet of the sun room. Nini kept her post next to me, reminding me every few minutes to refrain from scratching at my skin that seemed to be alive with tickling annoyance. In an effort to distract my attention, Nini sought to teach me all of the names of the birds that made their home in the trees and bird houses in our yard. I learned of the tiny goldfinch, the regal barn swallow, the beautiful cardinal, the hard working woodpecker, and the pesky crows. She taught me the difference between a hawk and falcon; falcons are smaller and faster by the way. I heard stories of vultures, and how if I ever saw them circling overhead it probably meant that something had died nearby.
Nini taught me a lot over those five days. Not only did I become a five-year-old expert of birds, but she taught me about the quiet love of a grandmother. She has never been one to say the words I love you, her strict upbringing always kept her at an emotional arms length. However, she always found ways to communicate her love and devotion in other ways. It was in the way she would sneak up on me unexpectedly and blow raspberries into my neck, then pull away as she giggled out an I gottcha. It was in the way she would give me a mischievous wink from across a crowded room. It was how she would let me lay across her lap, even until I was nearly twenty-six years old, and hypnotize and tickle my back with her fingers. It was in the way she would give me a hug, leaning in to my ear and whispering you’re my special one, then pulling away just as she pinched me in the butt. It was in her warm smile and bright blue eyes. She never had to say I love you, because she made it abundantly clear she did by just being herself.
I think of myself as immensely lucky that I never went a full week without seeing her until I went to college. Whether it was Noonsies at her house on a Sunday afternoon, digging in the dirt of her immaculate garden, going for walks with her dogs, or fishing on the end of a dock, I loved spending time with her. She taught me more than just the common names of birds. She taught me the importance of carrying oneself with class and dignity. She taught me that while some may view stubbornness as a negative trait, it was really a mask for perseverance. She taught me to always show others respect, and they will in turn respect me. She taught me to always have interests and dreams, and that no matter what, that I always had a family that stood behind me one hundred percent. She is, and has always been, the most important and special woman to me aside from my mother.
Ten years ago, I watched in horror as Nini’s memories started to slip. Details started to become fuzzy, and she couldn’t remember simple things like how to get from her house to the grocery store. At first, she hid it well. Being the corporate wife she had been, she always knew how to dazzle a crowd with her charismatic personality. She would laugh off her lapses in memory, insisting she didn’t have a problem and probably just needed more sleep. A couple of years past and she couldn’t hide it anymore. Holding on to her short term memory was like capturing smoke in her hands; everything was floating away in a mist of anguish.
I received a call from my mother earlier this week. The Alzheimer’s was sinking its final claim into Nini’s once vibrant light, a light that is now no more than a dull glow. At nearly seventy pounds, she isn’t eating and is hardly drinking. The amazing energy she once had chasing me around our backyard was gone, and now she has trouble standing for more than a few seconds
