Memories of My Grandmother

(These "memories of ..." stories will link together in due time. First, the cast of characters need to be defined and then the nightmare will be shared.)

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My dad's mother was born with a very small hole in her heart which, as she got older, gave her blood system circulation issues. On the hottest days, she'd wear sweaters - plural. Being constantly cold was, I'm sure, a problem but it meant she made the most excellent pie crusts ever. (Cold fingers are a huge help when working with pastry.)

Another thing that hole did was greatly limit her activity level. Since her blood couldn't circulate properly, oxygen wasn't carried throughout her body (as it would normally be) and it didn't take much for her to get very tired. Oh, and I remember her as appearing to be of a blue-ish hue and always ... always ... properly dressed for each occasion.

She was raised as an only child ('tho she was her father's second daughter - his first being from a different marriage) and in a fairly well-to-do home. Since her heart defect was detected at an early age, she was restricted from most normal childhood activities. There was no running about, no jump rope ... nothing that raised her heartbeat too terribly. From what I've learned in asking family members, she was raised as a very protected, very sheltered child.

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This couldn't have been more opposite for her half-sister, who I'd come to know as "The Candy Lady". My Great Aunt was the first woman on record under the age of 21 to shoot a mountain lion in the county. She also was in charge of driving a team of 12 horses at the tender age of 16. She roamed into the valley areas - alone - and fell in love with the different cultures and tribes she found there. (I'm not being insensitive ... the Valley we know as "Silicon" was, at that time, very much home to Native Americans of all sorts.) She became a teacher to the children of these cultures and tribes, instructing them on the very basics - how to read, how to sign their names, how to count - so that they could teach their parents the same skills. My Great Aunt came boldly into a room where my Grandmother would quietly just suddenly be there. They couldn't have been more different.

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I don't know at what point my Great Aunt and my Grandmother knew of each other, and while I wouldn't exactly call them best friends, they seemed to enjoy each other’s company well enough. When my parents decided my Grandmother was going to come and live with us, my Great Aunt took it upon herself to introduce her to the local libraries, activity centers, churches and schools ... all places my Great Aunt loved to visit but that my shy and withdrawn Grandmother was overwhelmed by. She'd go along without complaint, but I never got the feeling she looked forward to these outings.

At some point I became aware that my Grandmother was not just shy ... but that she was also sad. I know now that she was likely suffering from (at least) clinical depression and, in reviewing her life, I give her credit for all she forced herself to do. She was sullen and quiet at times, but always made an effort to help me practice piano (the one activity her parents allowed her to do in her childhood) and seemed genuinely pleased when I'd do well. As a child who enjoyed playing a musical instrument in a family where there were no musically-inclined members, her guidance and critiques were helpful to me. Having her in our home was alright by me, but her "sadness" was difficult - and, at times, maddening - for my parents.

The treatment for "chronic sadness" in that time was pill-driven. My Grandmother was a master at faking swallowing her pills (she'd had her whole life to perfect this skill, after all) and my mother would find them wrapped up in a napkin or sitting at the bottom of a glass after meals. Since pills weren't working (not surprising, since they weren't actually being taken), I guess it was decided that more severe treatment options should be tried.

While I wasn't ever told what that treatment would be (I was deemed too young to understand), I knew that twice a month, my Grandmother would get her hair done, dress for a day out, and then would go to her doctor's appointment. When she came back from those appointments, she was VERY tired and seemed ... not herself. Unresponsive. Vacant. She'd stare at her TV in her room for hours, and it wasn't turned on. My young self was confused but understood that this was an adult topic. I'd be informed of whatever I needed to know only on a "need-to-know" basis and - apparently - I didn't need to know anything at all.  While my frequent trips to the doctor became stories of "show and tell" in school, we never talked about what went on at my Grandmother's trips to her doctor.

My Great Aunt continued to encourage my Grandmother to go with her to the libraries and activity centers during this time of new treatments. Sometimes my Grandmother would agree to tag along but, as treatment continued, more and more, she'd just choose to sit alone in her room. She didn't seem as sad to me anymore, but she didn't seem ... anything at all, really. I'd learn years later how extreme these treatments were but I was never told details as a child.

Which made my nightmare all the more curious and frightening to my family.