It’s 11.55pm on Monday 15th August 2011. Today was my Grandma’s 100th birthday.
My dear cousin Trish had arranged a party at Grandma’s new nursing home in Edinburgh. Chris and I visited early in the morning, so that I could spend some time alone with her before her guests arrived.
Having last seen Grandma as a rather sorry soul in hospital, I was keen to see both her and her new home. The place was bright and set in pretty gardens and the staff were caring and efficient. We were informed that Grandma was having a perm and were duly taken to see her.
I found her in her wheelchair with curlers in her sparse hair. Although now mostly in a world of her own and severely deaf & blind, she still demanded I hit the lady shrieking in the chair next to her and accused the hairdresser of trying to drown her. (Actually she was quite wet.)
There proceeded two hours of Grandma shouting her way through lunch, present opening, changing for her party and being pushed round the garden in her wheelchair.
At one point, while being shown to Grandma’s room, the nurse remarked on a raised voice at the end of the corridor. “That’s Jose. She’s our oldest resident...and our loudest.”
Before I make you feel too awful, I am bound to point out that I’m laughing as I write these words, as I did when I experienced this.
Grandma may be 100, wheelchair bound and suffering from dementia but she is the same irascible, voluble, funny, charismatic lady she always was. When, on our garden stroll, she told us to:
“Sit on your arses you silly people!”
I thought I was going to pee my pants. No one, but no one says “arses” with the style and sass of my Grandma.
I sat with her in the sunshine, studying her and listening to her talk and exclaim, listening to her converse with characters that only she could see. And I realised that nothing had changed. The way she spoke, her still so Cockney accent, the words she used, the classic Jose sayings, the now rarer laugh, all Grandma.
And it struck me that it was as if she were dreaming while awake. Day dreaming. The scenes and characters she described, the emotions she experienced as real - because they were real to her.
She looked so beautiful in her strangeness. Not knowing me, no longer knowing the reality that we inhabit. And it was as if the world paused.
And then all hell broke loose.
Well, okay, the party started.
Now when I told Chris I was writing about today he said: “Well of course. You can talk about her message from the Queen; and how many people came to see her; and about the Scottish piper; and the amazing spread that the staff put on; and the photos of your grandma when she was young; and so many cards...
But I wont.
I can only take you through my day. You know, the one where my darling Grandma calls me an arse and tells me not to touch her; the one where I want to laugh one minute and throw myself on the ground and wail the next; the one that at times seemed like the most deliciously surreal farce imaginable.
Picture the scene: A large sunny lounge opening onto the garden; crowds of people and presents and tables groaning with food; two little boys tuning their violins and playing tag; the loud rumble of conversation and laughter, above which Grandma’s voice soars continuously.
The french windows are closed and the room is stifling. When the piper has piped - twice - and I finally open the doors, there is a surge towards the fresh air and old ladies with tea cups and cake spill out into the garden.
I roam around, not sure what to do, where to be. I want to be with Grandma, I can’t settle to talk to my family. Trish and I snatch a brief time alone together, excusing ourselves to take presents up to Jose’s room.
I’ve brought Trish a gift - a set of my favourite ceramics from California, decorated with birds‘ eggs and nests. It is a small token of thanks for this cousin of mine who has taken care of Grandma and me with such generosity of spirit and genuine love.
Back downstairs the party’s in full swing. Grandma is holding court as usual and has rejected a glass of Prosecco in favour of a cup of tea. Nothing changed there then. She also manages to find her way round the most enormous slice of gooey chocolate birthday cake, despite not seeing a thing.
Grandma’s old golfing, swimming and church buddies have turned up in force and are regaling us with their own personal tales of Grandma: Jose making a speech at the annual Golf Club dinner; Jose demanding that the swimming coach hold her head down while she does the splits under water. Trish has prepared a family tree and collages of photos of Grandma and her family at all ages.
The most poignant and unexpected meeting for me was with Grandma’s dear friend Jeanette - a yoga teacher who went to school with my mum. Over the years she taught all three of us the art of yoga, and imbued in us all an abiding love for this ancient cure-all.
I was winded by our meeting - reminded of our three generations by this remarkable lady who has been a friend to us all. It was she who pointed to a photo of Grandma, mum and I and remarked on the likeness - the three ages of woman.
And I was battered with a tangle of emotions - laughter and grief; guilt that my cousin Trish and not me had created this splendid party; tension - was Grandma alright? Would we have to leave soon?
Seven hours and many hundreds of miles later, I finally sat my weary bones down in a familiar chair in our familiar home and exhaled.
Chris and I sat in our turret overlooking Market Square and dissected the day. As we talked through the emotions and the people we’d met, I slowly came into focus. I am still surprised by my inability to see things clearly when I’m overwrought. Oh Laura you are too funny.
Later as I lay in bed, I looked back over my day, thinking about how I might put into words my complicated reaction to this rare and joyous celebration. I replayed the comedy moments, pictured the photographs, felt the pain of my indebtedness to Trish. I should have been the one to organise Grandma’s big day. I’m her granddaughter. If mum had been alive it would have been her.
And then it hit me. It hit me in the way that other profound realisations have hit me before. Just the same. Lying like this in the dark in bed. Communing with the silent powers of the universe (aka talking to myself). And suddenly WHAM! Like a right hook in the solar plexus. And it’s as if the emotional punch has a physical effect. Tears spring from my eyes in a silent convulsion, cartoon-like, as if a sudden intense feeling of love has been released in an outburst of ecstatic tears.
Weird?
You think it’s weird. Imagine how I felt.
So what was all the fuss about then?
As I tormented myself with Trish’s tireless efforts in arranging Grandma’s celebration, I realised that she had done it for me.
Trish loves her Aunty Jose just as deeply as I love my Grandma. And being older than me, she’s known her for longer. This party was a labour of love for Trish, a way of thanking Grandma for the pleasure that their relationship has given her.
But Trish also did this for me. No, my mum, Jose’s daughter wasn’t there to organise her party. And Trish was sensitive to that - as she has always been.
As my older cousin, she took on the responsibility for today knowing that it would be hard for me and wanting to ease the day for Grandma and me. This petite powerhouse of a lady, with a heart the size of a lion, made sure all through this marathon celebration that I (and my brothers) were at the centre of things. And this from a woman who has devoted more time to Jose over the years than my family has.
I felt released by my understanding. freed from my torment and filled with admiration and love for my cousin. The more I get to know Trish, the more I find qualities I choose to emulate. And I cut myself a little slack and remind myself that she’s older and wiser than me, so perhaps there’s hope for me yet.
So my darling Grandma’s 100th birthday party was not only a rip roaring knees up but a bit of a life lesson for me.
PS: I have a wee calendar stuck on a kitchen unit. It’s just like the ones my Grandma always had. You know, the ones with the tabs you pull off, and every day’s a different quote?
Well, having been away for the weekend, I had a few tabs to remove.
“I wonder what the quote for the 15th is? Maybe it will be something profound or linked to today,” thought I.
Well this is it:
“That which is striking and beautiful is not always good. But that which is good is always beautiful.”
Amen.
