2001-11-12 � Weezie

My grandmother went into the hospital last weekend. She had one of her �spells� which ordinarily involve passing out, staggering to the bed, and gasping for air. This time it also included turning quite blue. Understandably, this frightened my grandfather.

It seems my grandmother has been having these �spells� for more than a year and hiding them by threatening my grandfather not to tell anyone. Three or four a week for more than a year! What is it with her? If I passed out even once I�d present myself at the nearest doctor�s office and demand to know what was wrong with me. �Dr. Kelper is a podiatrist,� they would say. �He has more experience with bunions than �spells�. Maybe you should go to a hospital.�

So my grandfather doesn�t call an ambulance. He calls his daughters. �She�s a turnin� blue!� And instead of calling for medical help they rush right over. Why is this so? Because my grandmother hates doctors. In order for her to go, they know it will take all three of them nagging ceaselessly.

So my mom arrives mid-sentence. My mother has been yelling at my grandmother from the instant she learned there was a problem. As the door of my grandparent�s home flies open, ��why you refuse to take care of yourself. It�s always like this. Well, I�ll tell you something this time, mom. You�re gonna get your butt to that hospital and get some TLC or you and I will go round �n round.�

My grandmother believes herself to be invincible. She has fairly good reason to hold such opinion. When I was three years old, a tornado destroyed my grandparent�s home. Both my grandparents were, of course, inside it at the time. They both have memories of flying, though neither possesses any memory of landing. My father was the first on the scene and he met my grandmother, bleeding from the head, compound fracture in her right leg, a piece of waffle iron impaling her rib cage. She was digging in the debris looking for my grandfather. �He�s over here somewhere. I saw him fly off in this direction.�

My grandfather was right where she said he would be under a wall. She escaped with a moderate amount of brain damage, but no other permanent injuries. Unless, of course, the scars count. As a child I used to trace the faint shrapnel lines in her skin, a wriggling street map reminding all of us who looked hard enough of that horrible night. The wrinkles and other byproducts of age have long since covered the scars.

When the ambulance finally arrived the paramedics were quite alarmed by her hue. They strapped her to a board and took her away. She cursed them the whole time. A regular blue tiger. Once they arrived at the hospital and attached an oxygen mask she began to pink up again. She promptly went from tiger to bitch.

�How are you feeling, Helen?�

�Fine. Send me home.�

�We just need to do a few more tests.�

�And I just need to scratch your eyes out.� The nurse sutured the doctor up in no time.

I�m not sure what they wrote on her chart, but when the specialist finally arrived his first words to my grandmother were, �I�m Dr. Soandso, and I understand you don�t much like our hospital.�

They put my grandmother, weakened, but feral, through a battery of tests, and on the advice of my mother kept her the whole weekend. If they�d let her go, she�d never have come back.

At the end of the weekend, Dr. Soandso came in to say, �I think that�s about it. I�ll be back in a few minutes to unhook the machines and release you.� The doctor left the room and my grandmother immediately began tearing at the tubes and wires attached to her chest and arms. She only damaged the equipment a little.

My aunt was putting a pair of shoes in my grandmother�s over night bag. �What the hell is this?" My aunt demanded. A small plastic bowl that at one time contained green jell-o, was nestled into an interior pocket. The bowl now contained a melted pat of butter, two small salt shakers, a roll of surgical tape and a single earring that looked very similar to the one lost by my grandmother�s hospital cell mate. The bowl was camouflaged because it had been wrapped in toilet paper.

One other thing about my grandmother. She�s a kleptomaniac. When I was a child we went on a family vacation with my grandparents. We were visiting Mount Vernon, George Washington�s home. At the end of the tour my grandmother emerged from the manor, stiff-legged and wincing.

�Get to the car� she demanded.

We picked up our pace across the parking lot and she managed to climb in the back seat without bending at the waist. �Drive� she said.

My father was at the wheel. �What�s going on?�

�Just Drive. Drive! Now! Drive!�

We got underway, my grandmother�s eyes welling with tears as an alarming spot of blood became apparent on her white slacks, very near her hipbone. When we were far enough away to make my grandmother comfortable about not being caught, she produced a bayonet from her pant leg.

She�s done this her whole life and it absolutely drives my mother and my aunt bonkers. �You�re going to give all these things back, even the puddle of butter, and apologize� my aunt said, holding my grandmother�s newly acquired treasures under her nose.

"Honey, I'm sick," she said weekly. "Just take me home, Ok? Will they have a wheel chair for me? I don't know if I can make it to the car. If they don't have a wheel chair for me the two of you can drag me across the parking lot on a bed sheet. Honey, hold my head up whnile I sip my water through this straw. Do they have any bendy straws for the sick people?"

I called my grandmother once I knew she was home. The doctors still don�t know what causes her �spells� but she�s fine-ish for now. �How you doin,� grandmom?�

�Never better� she wheezed. At least she�s consistent.

�I was just calling to tell you I love you and I was thinking about you.�

�I love you too, honey. You commin� home for Christmas?�

�Yeah, I�ll be there.�

I managed not to cry while I was on the phone with her. She would have hated to hear me cry.

Posted at 10:00 p.m.

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