It Was Yellow

Anyone who has been watching the Sopranos this season knows that Junior may be struggling with incontinence. Having watched grandparents go through the fun time stages of aging , I know that there's a hard and fast rule in the Land of Assisted Living Situations that states, "Once you piss your pants, you're outta here. Next Stop: Nursing Home." Pants-soiling behavior requires different staff and accomodations (ie: not as nice, more government).

When my remarkably sweet, too-good-for-this-Earth grandmother was still living alone in her 80's, she started tripping over carpets and setting her bathrobe sleeve on fire on the stove burner making tea. After much reluctance, she finally sold the big old house--in which she raised ten, count 'em, TEN kids-- to reside in a large studio apartment in a fancy assisted-living complex in town. That's a place which supervises the seniors who can bathe, clothe and feed themselves, but just need a little checkin' in on.

Once at the new place, Gram realized she was happier than a pig in shit and regretted not doing it sooner. She was able to take her favorite furniture (including a 3.5 foot doll which always stood in the living room as far back as I can remember), socialize and dine with new peeps on nice meals, stroll to actitivies down the hall, take a bus to chuch and/or the mall, and all kinds of other stuff. It was adorable how much she relished showing her new digs off to friends and family and introducing us to everyone in the place when we'd drop in. Grampa died a few years back, and I hadn't seen her this happy in a long time. It was cool. We were so close. I loved her so much. I'd go as far to say that I was her favorite grandchild. And out of 20+ grandkids, that's saying something ain't it? It sure is.

She hadn't been there but a few months though when I came to visit and noticed an unpleasant --but familiar-- smell. Not unlike my baby sister's room when she was a wee little thing. (Note: emphasis on the word "wee.") When I stepped into her private bathroom, I found a few pairs of rinsed-in-the-sink grannie panties drying on the towel bars. "Gram, what's this all about? They do your laundry here..." And as I turned the corner in the apartment, I saw the doll. Her her arms upstretched to the sky, a pair of dried underwear on each hand, and one pair on her head. "What in the hell?"

I knew the hard and fast rule, and Gram knew too. But she was obviously getting sloppy with her secret. It was out of control. I panicked. In haste, whisked up all the underpants strewn about and slammed the front door: "WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU WOMAN? DON'T YOU KNOW THEY'LL THROW YOU OUT OF HERE, GODDAMN IT? YOU LOVE THIS PLACE! PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER FOR CRYIN OUT LOUD!"

Very sadly, a few months later, Grama fell out of bed and broke her hip. Off she went to the hospital for a replacement, and then to a rehabilitative joint which had none of the nice amenities of the last place. It was nothing but a dreary room. She was frail. It was awful. I had a terrible feeling she wasn't going to get back to the good place. Or anywhere. The last time I went to visit, I asked her if I could bring her anything. She wanted some undershirts because she was cold all the time. She was so tiny, size 6X. I got a pack of 3 at JC Penney. "Anything else, Grama? Something sweet to eat?"

"No, just some undershirts would be good. And a fly swatter. There's a fly in here."

And that was the last thing I ever bought for my grandmother. A lousy fly swatter. She was so happy and grateful for it, too. It was yellow.