Goodnight; sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite

in honor of my good friend geo, who somehow manages to do this and much, much more every day

Tonight (Sunday) I tucked my ninety-year-old grandmother into bed for the night. Some time ago I regularly had the pleasure of turning down her bed for her before her afternoon nap, but it's been awhile and this was the first time at bedtime. I gently nestled the sheets beneath her chin and laid out the Underground Railroad quilt I pieced for her for her 88th birthday and made her promise to me that no matter what happened with Grandpa during the night she would stay in bed and page the aides and let them deal with it.


She had another TIA today. It's no wonder. Grandpa, just turned 98, has been very sweet and cooperative with her until these past few weeks. But now dementia usually has him in its vicious grip and he's had enough the oxygen tubes and little white pills and waking up every day to the disappointment of still being alive.

The nurse came in and took Grandma's blood pressure. They'd finally gotten it down to 145 over something earlier, but that was before the both of us had to double-team Grandpa to get him to down his meds. Now it was back to 150/70. The nurse was concerned. So was I, but I told him I was sure even my blood pressure was elevated after the battle over dinner. I hoped that if both of them would stay in bed through the night she'd feel better in the morning.

Now I'm afraid I'll be haunted forever by my memory of their supper. Noting it would be one of their last together. How sad it was to watch my grandmother desperately keep offering him different foods in order to get him to eat. And to see him refuse even the chocolates that had lit up his eyes just moments ago, but now didn't seem so enticing being offered as a bribe for a good boy who would take his medicine. (Note to self. If you find yourself married to someone who has already lived well past 90 years--the last two after being given six months to live--give him chocolate whenever he wants it. What's it going to hurt?) One moment Grandma is stubbornly persisting in trying to get one more bite of food down him. The next minute she's telling me how a friend of theirs finally just stopped feeding her husband because he wanted to go so badly and this was the only way. After well over 75 years, Grandma just can't quite let Grandpa go. Could you?

As for me, I recover from the sting of the swat and the harsh words with which he rejected the meds I knew I must give him. Even at my age, having my hand slapped by this man whom I could probably take down with one arm still smarts in the heart of the little girl who looked up to him, loved him and yet was still always a little bit afraid of him her most of her young life. I do note, however, that when it's finally all over, and in the first lucid comments of the evening, he pleads, "You do understand, don't you?" "Yes, Grandpa," I reassure him as I kiss his cheek. "I do understand."

As I was finishing up their dishes and Grandma was getting ready for bed Grandpa kept trying to get up. He needed to go save the children. He wondered how all the people were doing down south after the big flood. He didn't know where the ubiquitous "they" wanted him to go, where "they" wanted him to sleep. He wondered if we'd be staying at Heber's house in Ogden. He needed to find and put on his church shoes. Grandma (and I've noticed my mom does this as well) keeps trying to a). understand what he's saying and b). bring him back to his senses. I wonder if perhaps it's better just to play along. "The children are all fine, Grandpa." "That was a good thing you did." "Yes, that was a terrible disaster. But you need your rest so you can go back to help tomorrow." "Everyone is OK now."

This tiny man who has violently resisted our efforts to care for him finally settles down enough to ask Grandma simply, "What do you want me to do?' "Go to bed now" is her reply. Eventually he does so, but not without telling me to make sure Grandma goes to bed. And telling her one more time how much he loves her.


I kiss them both goodnight, turn down the lights and quietly slip out the door. I want to cry. But I'm so overwhelmed by trying to process everything I can't even find my tears.

"Goodnight," I recite. "Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite. . . "