Where's Dean? by Natalie Shea

Photo Source: Unsplash

I place my hand over Grandma Ruth’s gnarled one. Arthritis has twisted and swollen her hands over the years.  I can feel how papery thin her skin is under my fingers. She is lying in a hospital bed. She smiles weakly at me, her lips dry, wincing as she looks me in the face. Her eyes are large and brown and don’t appear watery or faded despite her ninety-two years. There are bandages on her head and arms, with blood leaking through the dressing on her left arm. I wonder if she knows who I am, but she seems to recognize me.

She is in the hospital with a broken pelvis and some serious contusions after an automobile accident. She’s in so much pain; I feel sorry for her. Her face is twisted in a grimace, and she moans loudly. There are bruises all over her face, her gray hair matted with blood, and my heart aches when I look at her.

“I hurt,” she tells me, and it makes me feel helpless. Her eyes are soft and begging, but there’s nothing I can do.

“I’m sorry, Grandma,” I say.

            “Where’s Dean?” she asks, referring to her second husband. My grandfather died thirty-five years ago. The two men couldn’t be any more different.

            “He’s at home,” I say, trying to keep my voice light despite my anger at the man.

            “I hope he’s ok,” she says.

“Dean is fine. You’re in the hospital,” I say. “You were in a car wreck.”

 She doesn’t remember that her neurologist recommended that she quit driving.

            “Oh, my memory isn’t what it used to be,” she says. I just nod.

I am taking a turn staying with my grandmother while she is in the hospital. Because of her Alzheimer’s, our family doesn’t want her to be by herself. My mother, brother, two cousins, and I switch out twelve-hour shifts, trying to juggle our hectic schedules to be there for the woman who has always been there for us.

The hospital is still on a Covid visitation system, which only allows one person to visit every twelve hours. I recall many times when Grandma’s and my roles were reversed, and she was the one comforting me. I close my eyes and think back to my childhood. I remember how she took care of me after falling off my bicycle.

***

            “Grandma, Grandma,” I cried out. Blood ran down my leg from a badly scraped knee. My face was streaked with tears as Grandma Ruth ran to me, scooped me up in her arms and rocked me back and forth on her ample bosom. I got snot on her blouse, but she didn’t seem to mind, just hugged me until I was calm enough for her to clean up my knee. Gingerly, she wiped the wound with a washcloth and placed a band-aid over it.

***

“Gail,” she says, calling me by my mother’s name.

“Yes,” I answer because this happens frequently.

“I want to go home,” she states in a matter-of-fact tone. I lean down and remind her gently about the wreck. She worries again that Dean was hurt in the accident. She frantically pulls at the blanket on her hospital bed.

“He wasn’t in the car, Grandma,” I say.

Speaking to my grandmother was a delightful experience before Alzheimer's ravaged her mind. She has such a gentle spirit when she is not being irrational because of the disease. She remembers her childhood and young adult years with acuity, her memory only faulty about the present.

I go into the hospital room’s bathroom to brush my teeth and put on some comfortable clothes to sleep in, not looking forward to a night in a vinyl recliner at a busy hospital. It’s only for twelve hours, I remind myself.

“Help! Help me,” Grandma screams, and I rush out half-dressed to see what’s happening.

“I can’t move,” she says, and I relax some because there is no imminent danger; she just forgot about her predicament.

“You’re in the hospital,” I say. “You’ve been in a car wreck.”

“I have?” Her eyes widen. She’s surprised by the news even though we’ve gone over it many times, and her innocence brings a smile to my face. We go through basically the same conversation we had before I went into the bathroom and after assuring her that Dean was not involved in the accident with her, that he’s at home safe, I return to the bathroom. I let out a shaky sigh and hurriedly finish dressing for bed.

Grandma drifts off to sleep quickly. I pick up my computer to occupy myself, knowing that I probably won’t get much sleep. The night passes easily despite my being uncomfortable and the hospital staff coming in to check Grandma’s vitals at regular intervals. Grandma Ruth sleeps for the most part, allowing me time to think about our relationship throughout my life.

After my high school graduation, Grandma offered me a trip to New York to attend a youth camp. She flew with me from Atlanta to Albany, New York. It was my first time on a plane, and I was excited to share the experience with her. Grandma let me have the window seat and laughed giddily at my reaction to seeing the world from such a great height.

Grandma Ruth laughs easily, and nothing makes her happier than her progeny. As kids, my cousins and I would employ silly antics and crack jokes to bring that laughter out. Many times, our attempts were less than amusing, but she always laughed as if we were the funniest children in the world.

I remember her birthdays. Grandma gets so many cards in the mail from people that she doesn’t have enough room for them on her dining room buffet; she must tuck them into the picture frame above. I always wonder what it would be like to be loved by so many. As an adult, I realize she is loved because she is so loving.

Early the next morning, the nurse comes in to check on Grandma Ruth.

“She’s in a lot of pain,” I say. “Can she get some pain medicine?” The nurse acquiesces and leaves the room, and I know that it will be a long time before Grandma actually gets the medication. The hospital staff has put her in a diaper, but she refuses to use it. She stubbornly holds her bladder. She hasn’t used the bathroom since I’ve been with her, her broken pelvis preventing her from walking to the bathroom or using a bedpan.

“I’ve never peed in my pants in my life, and I’m not about to start now,” she states firmly, pursing her lips. The woman who has come in to check how much urine Grandma dispelled overnight casts a look at me, and I shrug. As kind as my grandmother is, she’s willful, and I know that she will have to be catheterized because her mind is made up.

I think about her accident, and anger bubbles up inside me again. Dean is fourteen years Grandma Ruth’s junior, and his absence is nothing new. My mother walks into the room to take her shift, and I fill her in on the last twelve hours. Dark circles ring my mother’s eyes, and I can tell she’s trying hard to be positive. I gather my things to go and kiss Grandma’s weathered cheek.

“Where’s Dean?” I hear her ask as I walk down the hospital’s corridor.

 Natalie Shea is an artist and writer in Georgia.

If you would like to learn more about Natalie, you can find her on Instagram at @natalie_shea13