The Burden of Love

7:00 a.m. I rose drearily from the loveseat parked in front of our heavy beige drapes that still hung with hooks-which no one from my generation likely knew how to use because curtains should just slide onto rods. I stretched my arms upward both grateful to have a job to rush to and lamenting the fact that I’m made to work from such a state of exhaustion. Granny is still asleep so I rouse her with a gentle shake. She’s neatly nestled under my favorite pink fleece blanket, the one that traveled with me from Brooklyn to Vassar then back to Brooklyn, and then from Brooklyn to Boston College Law School and back again. The gray paisley print bandana that she ties over her hair and knots on her forehead, is slightly raised like a crown and half on her head, halfway resting on her pillow. She wants me to leave her alone but she knows the routine-wake up, morning bird bath, change her diaper, fresh clothing, breakfast, and medication before I leave for work.

Granny sits up on the edge of the bed wanting my attention to be gentle but I admit this morning is a bit rough and rushed. She stretches out her arms to me and with a heave, she leans forward and catapults herself to a standing position. Thankfully, this new hospital-style bed is higher from the floor and makes the job easier. Before the bed, Granny abandoned her bedroom in the rear of our two-bedroom apartment for the living room sofa, creamy white with faux wood panels on the front of the armrests, covered in plastic that made you sweat, and topped with a hideous beige floral slipcover that smelled noxiously of Bengay and Downy and shed strange particles of foam from its lining. She slept on that sofa so much, that it sloped in the middle and never regained its shape when she got off of it. Her son Leroy and I finally made the call to get approval for a medical-grade bed to replace the sofa in the living room.

Taking hold of her hands as she steadied herself, I felt the deep arthritic knuckle curvature of the third finger on her right hand. She had a smallish hard-shelled bump on the back of her left hand that despite my attempts to pop it remained impenetrable. Her long nails were nicely trimmed and polished over the weekend bringing more attention to her skin, deeply wrinkled like a Shar Pei puppy if you’ve ever seen one-layers and curves of skinfolds perhaps telling her 92 years of age like the rings inside a tree trunk.

These hands, so fragile now, were once strong enough to cradle me, to bathe me, to push me along Pitkin Avenue standing upright in her shopping cart, the same shopping cart that pushed my duffle bag to the train station on my return trips to college. These hands supported the economic engine of the South and of this country by way of sharecropping, picking king cotton, and cleaning the homes of white women so they could live fabulous lives. The stories of days in the fields, two hands simultaneously grabbing cotton buds, avoiding the painful thorns at all costs, each hand wrapped around her sides to drop the buds into a sack on her back-stories not lost on me. These hands were both powerful and weary-my hands now cradling and bathing her.

As she limped and hobbled to the bathroom trying to unstiffen her joints, the hem of her pink floral house coat brushed against the elephant menagerie on the coffee table, knocking one to the floor. The long row of gray porcelain-like elephant figurines of varying shapes and sizes shared table space with a host of other undesirable knick-knacks and tchotchkes. There was a small white foot I could never figure out what its purpose was. It was too oddly shaped to hold anything of the arch under the foot, the middle of the foot was indented and the bottom was flat. Two amber-hued octagonal ashtrays desperately needed to be returned to the 50s, a mysterious porcelain jar with a lid, filled with pennies, and a clear flower-shaped candy dish overrun with stale chocolates and peppermints that stuck to their wrappers. To eat one meant you believed that swallowing a bit of paper was harmless to the gut. One Halloween I made it home in time to stop Granny from doling this old candy out to the neighbor's children despite my insisting she not open the door because we had no fresh candy to give.

But she was always giving. Canned goods to neighbors in need. Care packages to family, and friends who visited. Pies for the holidays, and occasionally a frozen turkey from the turkey reserves she kept in our deep freezer, 2 or 3 turkeys stored up for the inevitable time when someone would need a turkey to cook. Logic would dictate that the turkey on the bottom should be given out first since it was the oldest, but I think she always gave away the one she could reach on top. I sincerely apologize to whoever is reading this and may have received a 7-year-old freezer-burnt turkey. If it was extra dry that year, it was not your fault.

Directly behind the sofa was an antique mirror of sorts, nothing special, dark brown, decades old, and overwhelmingly large. The sofa was flanked on the left and right by two end tables each with a dish, one red dish and one blue dish, filled with pecans she got from Aunt Daisy in South Carolina, some framed pictures of her grandson Jordan, and two dusty lamps. The lamps were given to her by a cousin, but the dust was courtesy of my oversight in cleaning. There was a single armchair that sat opposite the loveseat both perpendicular on either side of the sofa, rounding out the 3-piece collection. The chair sat in front of a large china cabinet filled with decades-old plates and glasses and stuff. 92 years of stuff that made us a home.

Steadily we walked past the chair to the bathroom, passing a wall opposite the sofa where just about every photo was of me, hung in random frames, slanted and crooked in every direction but straight. Chubby me in kindergarten. Crooked bangs me in elementary school. Tomboyish me in high school. Me. Me. Me. And then some random relatives long deceased before I was born, and of course a large photo of her beloved granddaughter Tiffany. Rounding the corner was a small wall facing the apartment entrance. It was the "wall of fame" hosting every plaque I received throughout my education. Plaques for the student of the month, honor roll, talent shows, and competitions, are also crookedly hung but prominently displayed, edges dinged and dented from falling off the wall. Granny belonged to a fan club of one-every award saved same as a child's precious stick figure drawings hung on a refrigerator.

8:00 a.m., Ugh. One foot in front of the other with a shuffling noise from her slippers we made our way to the bathroom. A 30-minute tour of duty from the living room to the bathroom. I feel the panic in my chest as I try to accept that I’ll be late again. What excuse will I give this time? It took longer to change the adult diaper this morning or I overslept or the train was delayed, the latter being a very plausible excuse for living in New York City and the one that preserved the most dignity for us both.

And she’s extra fussy. With her stiffness gone, Granny ushers herself into the kitchen and says "Gimme my medicine,' with a bit of an attitude. Okay girl, here you go! She tilts her head back and tosses the pills in like a pro with a gulp of water while I prepare a pack of instant Oatmeal. This is the same bowl of oatmeal she’s had every day for weeks for the last 5 years since I've been home, sometimes strawberry, sometimes apple cinnamon. But today, she pushed the bowl away in disgust and told me she wanted a peanut butter sandwich. I hate peanut butter and am praying that my teeth persevere so that in old age I don't have to eat it too.

9 a.m. and I have given up on getting to work on time. Granny detects my impatience and tells me "Don't be in such a rush! You gone be old one day." "You are getting on my nerves," I yell back, quickly turning my face to conceal my watery eyes and avoid feeling like I've committed elder abuse for raising my voice. Leaving the bowl of oatmeal on the table, I turn to walk away and though I look back hesitantly, my heart in one beat wanting to say “I’m sorry,” I steeled my face, grabbed my things, and walked out the door letting it slam behind me. Mentally I consult God about my life as I step around a puddle of piss in the neglected public housing hallways of the Langston Hughes Projects, jog down the stairs, and exit the building.

A hurricane erupts inside my soul with gale force winds as a torrential downpour flows from my eyes, chest heaving, and my mouth sobbing the words, “I can’t do this anymore.” I walk the path to the train station and I'm a wreck. I am wrecked with sadness for myself because life did not go as planned worst fear, the return to poverty, seemed to be coming true and though I was grateful for a home to return to, love was not enough to overcome the perils of caregiving for an aging parent with dementia. Calling to the universe for a reprieve, for an understanding of my broken devotedness, I inhaled and then exhaled the words, "God, listen to me, it's okay, I'm ready."

5:00 p.m. and it's been a day. I am trying to preserve my own mental health and well-being so why not give myself some space and time to relax? I deserve that much, right? I leave work and declare my evening shall be spent SWIMMING and the emotions of the morning will not control me. To guarantee myself this space, I will also not answer Granny's two hundred thousand calls of nothingness. What are you doing? Where are you going? What time are you coming home? All. Day. Long. For once I am doing something for myself which I've struggled with but I'll be better for it. I'll get home and all will be well.

7:00 p.m. The swim brought new energy. The train ride home was innocuous and the time in the pool seemed to have soothed my nerves so I called home to speak to Granny but no answer. Damnit, she must be in that back room looking for me out the window. It was amazing how much of me she could see from the window view. She once told me that walking to the building my legs looked pale and she mistook me for a white woman. I don't know if she was serious or clowning me for my inability to tan despite being black.

This was our routine- she called me all day, I indulged her here and there because I knew she was alone, and then I'd call when I was coming home so she could sit in the back window and watch for me. Once she saw me, she would go crack the apartment door open and return to the window or stand in the hallway and wait with a bag of garbage she intended to take to the compactor. I tried to call again while I was walking home from the train station but still no answer. I called Leroy and he said he just spoke with her-all good. Ok, she will see me from the window and the door will be open for me as per usual. She's being lazy and not rushing to get the phone.

Up the stairs, stepping over the piss, I reach my door and it's locked. Perhaps she didn't see me. I used my keys to unlock the first lock, the second lock, and the third lock and pushed the door in but the chain from the inside blocked my entrance. I call out "Granny, it's me, I'm home, let me in." But still no answer. The crack opening was too small to see anything in the apartment.

My stomach dropped worse than the worst roller coaster ride I've ever been on. Maybe she has fallen and hurt herself and can't hear me. She did seem a little off that morning but I brushed it off and pretended I didn't see it. Hurry hurry hurry, over the piss, down the stairs. Don't panic. But I already knew. I called Leroy and told him I couldn't get past the chain on the door and he agreed to come over with his chain cutters. But I see a police officer walking along Sutter Avenue and I flag him down and say "I need an emergency wellness check." "My mother is 92 and she's been home alone all day. I just tried to enter the apartment but the chain is on the door from the inside and she's not answering." Breathe. We've been connected for 34 years close as you could be to someone who was not your biological mother. My heart already knew. I escorted the officer up to the apartment and he proceeded to rush the door just as Leroy arrived with the cutters. Two or three good thrusts from the officer and the door slams open.

8:00 p.m. Granny is sleeping. She lay peacefully in the bed, pink floral house coat on, grey paisley head scarf crown front knotted on her head, tucked under the pink fleece blanket, mouth slightly open. She looked like she was sleeping. I let out a scream and ran to shake her awake but I already knew. She was sleeping eternally.

"God! How could you? I didn't mean what I said earlier about being ready for her to go and all that. I was just stressed out." I thought. I'm not ready for this. "Fuck-I asked for a million dollars and I never got it yet you deliver death to my doorstep with such ease." Repentance was too late. God heard me-the power of my words thundered through the atmosphere and was met with a swift response. The woman who raised me was dead. And now we sit with the fire department, digging out do-not-resuscitate orders for them to review so they can avoid doing CPR. Even if they tried to they said, it would just break her ribs and she was cold which meant some time had passed and resuscitation was futile.

When the fire department left, the police sat with us through what seemed like the longest wait on earth. Me, Leroy, and the cops waiting silently on the coroner, starting to call relatives to tell them the news, while Granny lay there covered by the pink blanket. I felt like I was guarding precious cargo and wanted to make sure they handled her with care when they came to remove her body. It's the closest I would ever knowingly come to being in the presence of an Angel, our paths imperfect but divinely ordered, our roles reversed over time.

Exhausted by midnight, I finally opted to take a shower. When I emerged from the bathroom, foggy steam behind me, her body was gone. Just like that. "Where is she?" I demanded. "The coroner came while you were in the shower and you didn't need to see that. It isn't pretty. They just shove you in a bag." said Leroy. Oh, but I did want to see it. I wanted every last moment of her physical presence. Even in death, her body was here, and the physical representation of her was still with me. I was not ready.