My grandmother….that woman is a piece of work. I honestly don’t know if there’s another person on the planet who is independently functional but more bat-shit crazy that she appears to be sometimes.
You may think me mean for posting this. I’m not. She doesn’t know I have a blog. She’ll never know.
I love my grandmother. She will give you the shirt off her back and if nothing else, she is always entertaining.
She’s in her 70’s and at that point where she just doesn’t give a darn anymore. She says what she wants, does what she wants, and she’s in her 70’s so that makes it all good.
Back when I was younger my grandmother was eccentric in a cool, hip kind of way. She was the grandmother who would sing the song ‘Don’t Mess Wit My Toot Toot’ as we drove down the road.
Ok yeah, that may have been my first red flag. Whatever. I was like 9 and it was funny.
I stand by my original statement. She was eccentric with a twist of cool back in the day. At some point though, we crossed the threshold into Crazyville.
You should know….my grandmother is a doctor minus the degree. Or at least she thinks she is. Medical, Psychological, Herbal, even Spiritual….she’s got you covered. But she’s also crazy. So everyone she talks about has one of two things….Alzheimer’s or Schizophrenia. And depending on what’s going on that day, some may have both.
To give you an example….I went to her house once with sinus trouble. She proceeded to ‘doctor me up’ telling me about each herb as she went along. She brings out this concoction she’s mixed up with Rosemary oil and whatever other oils she thought beneficial.
“Hold still. You won’t even feel it.”
She lathers my cheeks with this godforsaken smelling oil bomb. In the midst of trying to breathe through the oil vapors my cheeks begin to sting.
“Ow. It really stings.”
I wipe my face. It stings some more. Then somehow it expands from my cheeks to my whole face and into my eyeballs. And it doesn’t sting anymore. It feels like someone just sliced my entire face and poured alcohol all over it.
“I gotta get this off. Now.”
My eyes begin to beg for mercy and attempt to jump out of my sockets to their death so I stumble into the nearest bathroom for water.
As my head is wedged in the 1950’s sink trying to reach the water faucet and I am trying desperately to cup water in my hands and make it reach my eyes in order to put out the fire that has sparked there, my grandmother is standing over me holding some other monstrosity one inch from my face saying, ‘Use this! Use this eyewash. Water won’t work. Here, use this!’ Over. And over. And over.
I finally get the fire down to a low simmer and am able to unwedge my head from the sink bowl. I can barely open my eyes to see that yes, my face is still there amazingly enough. Minus about the first 3-5 layers of skin, but yes, I still have a face. And the eyeballs didn’t jump after all.
“You just must not be used to it like I am.” was my grandmother’s comment.
So I visited her house last week. She’s quite the talker and story-teller so of course I was in for quite a treat.
First up are the family stories. My grandmother is one of nine siblings so there’s lots to tell.
We start the ball rolling with Hubby (not my biological grandfather) who is in his late 80’s and currently in the nursing home for some physical rehab. He has Alzheimer’s. In this case, he really does but that may or may not be attributed to the fact that she ‘diagnosed’ him in 2000 and has been hounding him about it ever since. I sometimes wonder if he didn’t just finally give in.
But I digress. Hubby is in the nursing home and Granny visits him every day. Or she did. But the first day he asked, if it’s not too much trouble, could she bring him some boxers. Then day two he needed emery boards. Day three he needed Maalox. Day Four he didn’t get a visit. X-nay on the visit-ay. He’s ‘persnickity’ she tells me.
She tells me about Day Three – Maalox day. She put the Maalox in his nightstand drawer but looked all over the nursing home and couldn’t find him anywhere to tell him. So she told the nurse and left. As she’s entering in the code to the exit door she turns to see a mortician with a gurney coming her way. The gurney holds a body, covered from head to foot with a sheet.
“I looked at the mortician. Then I looked at the gurney and it was about the same size and height as Hubby. I thought to myself, ‘That must be why I couldn’t find him.’ So I held the door open for them.”
Later when she arrived home Hubby called her. She answered with, ‘Well I thought you were dead!’
See what I’ve been telling you? Loony.
She told me about her sister (Alzheimer’s) who went to pick a frame of hers up from a brother (schizophrenia). Brother wasn’t home but as Sister is leaving he pulls up. Sees her with the frame. Goes and gets a shotgun and tries to shoot her. Twice. Over a picture frame.
“Where are all my bullets?!?” he yells at his sister (who isn’t dead from gunshot wounds yet).
“They were MY bullets!” is her response.
So it runs in the family.
She has one sister who is her closest friend. Ironically enough, this sister is not pre-diagnosed with Alzheimer’s OR Schizophrenia. Maybe there’s a connection? Hmmm.
Anyway, she tells me about their recent phone conversation. About how she has decided Hubby and Brother would both be happier dead. So she’s been praying, if it’s the Good Lord’s will of course, that He go ahead and take them out of their misery.
“Thanks for the heads up.” is what I’m sure was the Good Lord’s response.
Turns out, Non-Diagnosed Sister has her own Death List for Sister #3 who, according to my grandmother, is one of the dreaded double diagnosees with both Alzheimer’s and Schizophrenia…with a side of diabetes.
At the end of this diatribe of crazy my grandmother asks me if I know what’s taped to her neck.
“I sure don’t.”
“Well, I had a mole there. So I took a clove of garlic and cut it in half, then I taped it over the mole. In two days I can remove it and the mole will just fall right off!”
My grandmother had scotch taped garlic to her neck. For two days. Awesome.
I spent the majority of my listening time debating in my mind the chances of me escaping the Crazyville I am apparently genetically disposed to visit later in life. I’m pretty sure we’re hitting in the ‘slim to none’ range. Like the title says, it’s all over but the shoutin’.