CREEK ROAD GANG
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A Visit with Grandma Hoch
Dori Hochcopyright 2010
As I walked into her room with the shiny linoleum floors, I looked over toward the far left wall to the right of the hospital bed. There was Grandma Hoch sitting in her worn brown recliner. Her eyes were closed and her chest was lifting up and down in a slow, soft rhythm. Her head was cocked to the left with her false teeth hanging half in and half out of her mouth. I immediately surmised that it must have been her hairdresser week, since her silver white hair was combed back with curls neatly adorning her head. She was blanketed with those rippled waves of orange, olive, and ivory that she had crocheted when my children still needed her as a babysitter.
As I sat down beside the recliner, I announced, “Hi, Grandma. I came to visit you.”
“Hi, Dori. I’m so glad for company. Did you teach today?” she asked.
“No, it’s Sunday. I was at church this morning.” I add.
She sighed then continued, “I haven’t seen my mom in a while. How is she?”
I quickly tried to think of a way to dismiss the fact that Nannie has been gone now for over thirty years. “Oh, she’s about as good as you can expect,” I said.
“How’s my brother, Stanley? Does he have someone to help him with the milking?” she continued.
I invented again. “He doesn’t have his dairy herd anymore, but he’s fine.”
“I miss my mom. Why doesn’t she come to see me?” Grandma questioned.
Quickly, I tried to lead us to a safer topic. “You remember, Matt? Well, he’s a father now. He has two little girls. Hannah is two and Sofie is just a baby. He’s really cute with them.”
“Oh, really. That’s nice. Who’s Matt? ” Grandma queried.
“Matt’s your grandson. Frank and I have two children. Matt’s the oldest. Remember, when he was little you used to give him lots of candy when he would stop in to see you. He used to throw lots of fits, too.”
Grandma laughed, “I don’t remember that. How old is he now? What does he do?”
“Matt’s thirty-three now. He’s a college music professor. He gives voice lessons to his students.” I explained.
“I don’t remember that he was into music like that.” She sighed and looked away. Moments of silence seemed to linger before she tried again, “You had a little girl, too, didn’t you and Franklin?”
“Oh yes, you mean Katie. She’s not so little any more. She’s twenty-five and lives in Allentown. She’s an engineer and works in Bethlehem. ”
“Is she married?” she asked that all too familiar question that I hear every time I visit.
“No, she’s pretty independent. She has her own house though.”
“Does she have a boyfriend?” she asked, searching for a ray of hope.
“Yes, she does have a boyfriend.” I answered with my usual response.
“Well, there’s time then,” she responded, with the comment that I could have recited by heart. I will never understand why being married is so important to her. Her gaze turned toward the window and silence fell between us.
“I need to use the bathroom.” Grandma declared.
I reached for the white cord beside her chair and pushed the button. A light above her bed flashed. We waited. I tried to think of another topic, hoping to find recollections yet unscathed by the ruthless jaws of the memory robber. Moments that seemed like hours passed. Finally I asked, “What did you used to do on the farm? Did you milk the cows?”
“Yes, I put the milkers on the cows in the summertime. You had to wash the udders and then attach the machine by hand. When it was a school day, I was excused.”
The conversation ended. We waited. Her eyes closed and her soft rhythmic breaths once again filled the air.
When the attendant finally entered, I explained “Lillian needs to use the bathroom.”
The aide silently pushed the stark metallic arms on wheels over to my mother-in law’s chair. Returning the recliner to an upright position, she deftly maneuvered the lift in front of her charge, adjusting the sheep skin harness under Lillian’s arms and around her back. When it is all snapped into place, the unyielding limbs raised Grandma higher and higher. She moaned, “Oooh, oooh, oooh.” Her body hung from these jaws as if she were a kitten being hauled by its mother. The nurse transported her to the bathroom. I turned my head and looked out the window, wanting to be anywhere else but here. Minutes passed slowly as I waited. Finally, Grandma was pushed back and repositioned into the well worn valleys of her lounger.
When it is just the two of us again, I asked, “Did that lift hurt you, Grandma?”
“No,” she responded, letting out a sigh, long and low. “Just my dignity.”
How long have I been here? I looked at my watch. Just ten minutes have passed since the last time I checked. “Well, I have a lot I have to get done at home today. I’ll go and see if Frank is done paying Lester’s bills. They must be done by now. I’ll see you next time, Grandma.” Standing up, I reached over and gave her a hug and kissed her forehead.
“Thanks for all you do. You do so much. I’m so glad you came to see me.” She smiled.
I exited her space, relieved that the visit is over. As I walked to the assisted living wing, I wondered if that will be me in twenty more years. Who will listen to my questions repeated over and over again? To many these visits seem pointless. “She doesn’t even remember that you were there,” they say. But there are moments when I can catch a glimpse of Grandma’s robust, lively spirit. It is these moments that show me that Grandma can still feel the loss of her dignity, the warmth of a hug, and the touch of a kiss. And that’s why I will go again.
As I sat down beside the recliner, I announced, “Hi, Grandma. I came to visit you.”
“Hi, Dori. I’m so glad for company. Did you teach today?” she asked.
“No, it’s Sunday. I was at church this morning.” I add.
She sighed then continued, “I haven’t seen my mom in a while. How is she?”
I quickly tried to think of a way to dismiss the fact that Nannie has been gone now for over thirty years. “Oh, she’s about as good as you can expect,” I said.
“How’s my brother, Stanley? Does he have someone to help him with the milking?” she continued.
I invented again. “He doesn’t have his dairy herd anymore, but he’s fine.”
“I miss my mom. Why doesn’t she come to see me?” Grandma questioned.
Quickly, I tried to lead us to a safer topic. “You remember, Matt? Well, he’s a father now. He has two little girls. Hannah is two and Sofie is just a baby. He’s really cute with them.”
“Oh, really. That’s nice. Who’s Matt? ” Grandma queried.
“Matt’s your grandson. Frank and I have two children. Matt’s the oldest. Remember, when he was little you used to give him lots of candy when he would stop in to see you. He used to throw lots of fits, too.”
Grandma laughed, “I don’t remember that. How old is he now? What does he do?”
“Matt’s thirty-three now. He’s a college music professor. He gives voice lessons to his students.” I explained.
“I don’t remember that he was into music like that.” She sighed and looked away. Moments of silence seemed to linger before she tried again, “You had a little girl, too, didn’t you and Franklin?”
“Oh yes, you mean Katie. She’s not so little any more. She’s twenty-five and lives in Allentown. She’s an engineer and works in Bethlehem. ”
“Is she married?” she asked that all too familiar question that I hear every time I visit.
“No, she’s pretty independent. She has her own house though.”
“Does she have a boyfriend?” she asked, searching for a ray of hope.
“Yes, she does have a boyfriend.” I answered with my usual response.
“Well, there’s time then,” she responded, with the comment that I could have recited by heart. I will never understand why being married is so important to her. Her gaze turned toward the window and silence fell between us.
“I need to use the bathroom.” Grandma declared.
I reached for the white cord beside her chair and pushed the button. A light above her bed flashed. We waited. I tried to think of another topic, hoping to find recollections yet unscathed by the ruthless jaws of the memory robber. Moments that seemed like hours passed. Finally I asked, “What did you used to do on the farm? Did you milk the cows?”
“Yes, I put the milkers on the cows in the summertime. You had to wash the udders and then attach the machine by hand. When it was a school day, I was excused.”
The conversation ended. We waited. Her eyes closed and her soft rhythmic breaths once again filled the air.
When the attendant finally entered, I explained “Lillian needs to use the bathroom.”
The aide silently pushed the stark metallic arms on wheels over to my mother-in law’s chair. Returning the recliner to an upright position, she deftly maneuvered the lift in front of her charge, adjusting the sheep skin harness under Lillian’s arms and around her back. When it is all snapped into place, the unyielding limbs raised Grandma higher and higher. She moaned, “Oooh, oooh, oooh.” Her body hung from these jaws as if she were a kitten being hauled by its mother. The nurse transported her to the bathroom. I turned my head and looked out the window, wanting to be anywhere else but here. Minutes passed slowly as I waited. Finally, Grandma was pushed back and repositioned into the well worn valleys of her lounger.
When it is just the two of us again, I asked, “Did that lift hurt you, Grandma?”
“No,” she responded, letting out a sigh, long and low. “Just my dignity.”
How long have I been here? I looked at my watch. Just ten minutes have passed since the last time I checked. “Well, I have a lot I have to get done at home today. I’ll go and see if Frank is done paying Lester’s bills. They must be done by now. I’ll see you next time, Grandma.” Standing up, I reached over and gave her a hug and kissed her forehead.
“Thanks for all you do. You do so much. I’m so glad you came to see me.” She smiled.
I exited her space, relieved that the visit is over. As I walked to the assisted living wing, I wondered if that will be me in twenty more years. Who will listen to my questions repeated over and over again? To many these visits seem pointless. “She doesn’t even remember that you were there,” they say. But there are moments when I can catch a glimpse of Grandma’s robust, lively spirit. It is these moments that show me that Grandma can still feel the loss of her dignity, the warmth of a hug, and the touch of a kiss. And that’s why I will go again.
* * *
Biographical Note: Dori Hoch was born and raised in Pennsylvania and worked for over thirty years as an elementary teacher and reading specialist. She is married to an extremely patient man and has two grown children, two adorable granddaughters, and an unaffectionate cat that was left behind when her daughter flew the coup. She caught the writing bug while enrolled in the Writing Institute of the West Chester Writing Project in 1998. She is the author of "Simply Schooled in One Room Style", an expository piece about her visit to a rural one room school which appeared in Berks County Living in 2004. She belongs to two writers’ group and enjoys writing stories about her family, her insights, and travels. One of Dori’s goals is to get her historical fiction story about a student’s experiences in a one room school Pearl of Richmond School published.
