One of my earliest childhood
memories is that of me and my grandma sitting in the balcony, making up stories
about the people walking in the street and laughing at them. I admit it's not a
nice thing to teach to children, but we spent some quality time doing that :D
I used to wonder why my grandma didn't spend her time teaching me something useful like all grandparents do!! But then I liked the way she was different and unique. She once told me that if she didn't laugh at others, she'd laugh at herself… she'd laugh anyway, otherwise she'd explode. I didn't understand what she meant back then.
I remember once when we were sitting in the balcony, as usual, a young man passed, he was running and still getting dressed at the same time; it seemed he overslept and was late for college. He raised one of his legs to his chest while still jumping on the other, he tried to tie his shoe laces… that was when he stumbled into a rock, lost his balance, ran into a tree and hit his head… then finally fell to the ground. Now he was all covered in dirt. We couldn't help but laugh so hard that he heard us and looked at us in rage. But then he grabbed his bag, put it on his back and went back the way he came and didn't go to college. A totally Donald Duck kind of thing !
I used to wonder why my grandma didn't spend her time teaching me something useful like all grandparents do!! But then I liked the way she was different and unique. She once told me that if she didn't laugh at others, she'd laugh at herself… she'd laugh anyway, otherwise she'd explode. I didn't understand what she meant back then.
I remember once when we were sitting in the balcony, as usual, a young man passed, he was running and still getting dressed at the same time; it seemed he overslept and was late for college. He raised one of his legs to his chest while still jumping on the other, he tried to tie his shoe laces… that was when he stumbled into a rock, lost his balance, ran into a tree and hit his head… then finally fell to the ground. Now he was all covered in dirt. We couldn't help but laugh so hard that he heard us and looked at us in rage. But then he grabbed his bag, put it on his back and went back the way he came and didn't go to college. A totally Donald Duck kind of thing !
As she got older, she lost her
struggle with dementia, and gradually fell into a mood of silence and
depression… she didn't talk nor complain. She just sat there looking at us. My
mother tried endlessly to get her to say anything, but all in vain.
I refused to think that she might have forgotten who we are, and I never asked her to say my name to prove it. The truth is, I never believed that she didn't talk because she was sick, I liked to think that it was she who chose silence because she was no longer interested in talking, now that she had reached a point in her life when nothing more could possibly be said. So, I chose to respect her decision. I didn't talk to her much. My mother told me I was tough at heart. These words used to bother me.
But I couldn't blame her. It seemed ungrateful of me that after all those good times I shared with my grandmother, all the funny stories, all the nights I ran from home to my grandmother's house at the end of the street just to sleep in her arms because there was nowhere else on Earth that I'd rather be… all those warm memories and I couldn't find anything to say to her. She used to sit there looking at me… and I just smiled to her and avoided looking her in the eyes.
The truth is, I never felt at ease sitting with someone sick around… especially, someone I care for. To sit in the same room with someone I love, who doesn't seem to recognize me and doesn't show any sign to prove otherwise; is the most painful experience I've ever encountered. It's the pain of feeling useless, the pain of burning inside and screaming "Please, say anything!", while outside you're just poker-faced. Sometimes, I wished I could cry to take it off my chest, but I just couldn't.
Then one day, it came to me that we always had another way of communicating that didn't necessarily involve us speaking with each other. So I seated her on her wheel chair and took her to the balcony and sat next to her. We spent half an hour in silence, but she wasn't looking at me this time. She was looking at the people in the street, following them with her eyes and watching their facial expressions. Until a man passed, he was running and still getting dressed at the same time; it seemed he overslept and was late for work. He raised one of his legs to his chest while still jumping on the other, he tried to tie his shoe laces… that was when he stumbled into a rock, lost his balance, ran into a tree and hit his head… then finally fell to the ground. And now he was all covered in dirt.
That was the day I finally got to hear my grandma laughing again, after seven years of silence. I was so surprised that I laughed till I cried… not at the man, but at her laughing at him. Then I looked at the man who was looking at us in rage. My God, he was the same young man who was late for college. Was it possible that grandma remembered him and recognized him even before I did? Maybe. The thing about a demented person is the ability to remember older events better than the new ones . I just never figured she would remember someone she never saw but once.
I refused to think that she might have forgotten who we are, and I never asked her to say my name to prove it. The truth is, I never believed that she didn't talk because she was sick, I liked to think that it was she who chose silence because she was no longer interested in talking, now that she had reached a point in her life when nothing more could possibly be said. So, I chose to respect her decision. I didn't talk to her much. My mother told me I was tough at heart. These words used to bother me.
But I couldn't blame her. It seemed ungrateful of me that after all those good times I shared with my grandmother, all the funny stories, all the nights I ran from home to my grandmother's house at the end of the street just to sleep in her arms because there was nowhere else on Earth that I'd rather be… all those warm memories and I couldn't find anything to say to her. She used to sit there looking at me… and I just smiled to her and avoided looking her in the eyes.
The truth is, I never felt at ease sitting with someone sick around… especially, someone I care for. To sit in the same room with someone I love, who doesn't seem to recognize me and doesn't show any sign to prove otherwise; is the most painful experience I've ever encountered. It's the pain of feeling useless, the pain of burning inside and screaming "Please, say anything!", while outside you're just poker-faced. Sometimes, I wished I could cry to take it off my chest, but I just couldn't.
Then one day, it came to me that we always had another way of communicating that didn't necessarily involve us speaking with each other. So I seated her on her wheel chair and took her to the balcony and sat next to her. We spent half an hour in silence, but she wasn't looking at me this time. She was looking at the people in the street, following them with her eyes and watching their facial expressions. Until a man passed, he was running and still getting dressed at the same time; it seemed he overslept and was late for work. He raised one of his legs to his chest while still jumping on the other, he tried to tie his shoe laces… that was when he stumbled into a rock, lost his balance, ran into a tree and hit his head… then finally fell to the ground. And now he was all covered in dirt.
That was the day I finally got to hear my grandma laughing again, after seven years of silence. I was so surprised that I laughed till I cried… not at the man, but at her laughing at him. Then I looked at the man who was looking at us in rage. My God, he was the same young man who was late for college. Was it possible that grandma remembered him and recognized him even before I did? Maybe. The thing about a demented person is the ability to remember older events better than the new ones . I just never figured she would remember someone she never saw but once.
The man then suddenly seemed to remember us too, he looked at the old
woman and the little girl who laughed at him once, now an older woman and a
teenager. His frown gradually disappeared and was replaced by a smile that
burst into a laughter.
He then stood up, grabbed his bag gently, greeted us… and went back the way he came and didn't go to work. More of a Mickey Mouse kind of thing now !
A week later, my Grandma passed away. I was by her bed side, holding her hand in mine. We still didn't talk. But I was certain she knew me. I was certain that all those memories we shared together were still somewhere deep in her mind. Maybe she didn't carry those memories with her at that moment, but there was always something to trigger those memories; not words, not actions… but by the simplest gestures, which generated the mood that was once felt when a certain memory was being created. So we just sat there looking each other in the eye and smiling. We remembered those happy times we shared together, all the funny stories, all the nights I ran from home to her house at the end of the street just to sleep in her arms… and all those people we used to laugh at… especially that man who was always running late, and who was the reason behind my grandma's last laughter that will keep ringing in my ears for as long as I live.
Yes, I'll always be grateful to that man. Thanks to him, those final seven years my grandma spent suffering… hardly cross my mind. Because that final laughter had the magical power to trigger all the good memories I had of her and erase all the painful ones.
Only now, I understand what Grandma meant when she said if she didn't laugh at people she'd laugh at herself; that she'd laugh anyway otherwise she'd explode. Only now I realize that laughing was not her habit, or at least it wasn't meant to be one. It was her "coping mechanism". She chose laughter instead of crying herself to sleep over people who didn't deserve… she chose laughter instead of complaining to people who wouldn't help making her feel any better… she chose laughter instead of being drifted with each stormy wind that blew... she chose laughter instead of losing it.
He then stood up, grabbed his bag gently, greeted us… and went back the way he came and didn't go to work. More of a Mickey Mouse kind of thing now !
A week later, my Grandma passed away. I was by her bed side, holding her hand in mine. We still didn't talk. But I was certain she knew me. I was certain that all those memories we shared together were still somewhere deep in her mind. Maybe she didn't carry those memories with her at that moment, but there was always something to trigger those memories; not words, not actions… but by the simplest gestures, which generated the mood that was once felt when a certain memory was being created. So we just sat there looking each other in the eye and smiling. We remembered those happy times we shared together, all the funny stories, all the nights I ran from home to her house at the end of the street just to sleep in her arms… and all those people we used to laugh at… especially that man who was always running late, and who was the reason behind my grandma's last laughter that will keep ringing in my ears for as long as I live.
Yes, I'll always be grateful to that man. Thanks to him, those final seven years my grandma spent suffering… hardly cross my mind. Because that final laughter had the magical power to trigger all the good memories I had of her and erase all the painful ones.
Only now, I understand what Grandma meant when she said if she didn't laugh at people she'd laugh at herself; that she'd laugh anyway otherwise she'd explode. Only now I realize that laughing was not her habit, or at least it wasn't meant to be one. It was her "coping mechanism". She chose laughter instead of crying herself to sleep over people who didn't deserve… she chose laughter instead of complaining to people who wouldn't help making her feel any better… she chose laughter instead of being drifted with each stormy wind that blew... she chose laughter instead of losing it.
Come to think of it, laughter was the last
piece of vanity that always made her feel that time, cruel as it was to her, would never break her spirit.
And that's how I'll cherish her memory for the rest of my life; I'll stand tall and won't let life stab me in the heart. And even if it does, I'll stab it back a hundred times with a single smile.
Samar Ahmad Elsaadany
As much as I miss her now, and as much as I wish to be held in her arms one more time, I never wept over her passing, at least not on the outside. Maybe I am tough at heart after all. But I'm not bothered by this fact anymore. Because, now I know it has always been my Grandma kind of thing. That was the legacy she left me.
And that's how I'll cherish her memory for the rest of my life; I'll stand tall and won't let life stab me in the heart. And even if it does, I'll stab it back a hundred times with a single smile.
I'll laugh at time! Even if it includes laughing at you :D. So, when I do, don't get me wrong… I'm just coping! :D
Samar Ahmad Elsaadany
incredible! just incredible :) may she rest in peace
ReplyDeleteAmen :)
ReplyDeletethanks ya monty <3