Nearly 32 Years of My Grandma: In Memory of Rose

When I moved to New York City in 2016, I got in the habit of calling my grandparents every Tuesday. I don’t know why Tuesdays, but because I live and die by routine, it was habitual. At the time, they were still living in the south hills of Pittsburgh. This was before the stroke that took much of my grandmother’s independence. 

While I regularly called friends and other family while walking through the noisy streets of Manhattan, I reserved my grandparent calls for the quiet of my home. I can still feel myself pacing around the bedroom at my old apartment(s) listening to them pass the phone between each other while I relayed the previous week’s exploits.

At some point, likely after my grandfather passed on New Year’s Eve 2018, my calls became more frequent until they became a near daily occurrence. We never talked for long. Ten minutes. Then five. Most recently even just a three minute check-in. But they were constant and they were grounding.

When my grandma moved into an assisted living home, I learned to schedule my calls around her activities and meals. Later, as she required more advanced levels of care there, I adjusted further. I learned to call before the dementia-fueled sundowning started which means, for the last couple years, I have had a standing date in the early afternoon with my grandma. 

Often, I’d leave the breakfast and lunch dishes in the kitchen sink and when it was time to clean up—and time to give my eyes a break from the computer—I’d plug in my headphones and go to my “favorites” in my phone’s contacts.

My grandma passed nine days ago. Yesterday afternoon I looked at the dishes and grabbed my headphones out of habit.

My parents moved back to western Pennsylvania when I was a year old meaning my brothers and I grew up in close proximity to most of my dad’s family and both sets of grandparents. Because of this, my grandparents were at every piano recital. They came to track meets and band concerts and also just on random days because that is what it is to be an hours drive away.

My grandma was as instrumental in my growing up as anyone. Her youngest grandchild, I felt both doted on and also held to a high standard. She believed I was capable of anything and was never all that phased when I came to her with any sort of bold new idea. When I quit my job in 2018 to drive around the country with The Smile Project, she only ever really requested my safe return.

When my grandma left the south hills to be closer to my mom, it became even easier to visit on my trips home. Going to Pennsylvania, then, became about visiting with my parents. Maybe a friend or so. But always, and most importantly, my grandma. 

We’d talk about my job. My life in New York. My romantic partners or lack there of. She’d make me laugh. I’d make her coffee. She’d tell me stories of her childhood or of meeting my grandfather or of what it was like raising four kids (all 2 years apart) in the 60s. She talked about her career at the bank and going dancing with the other women after work. She’d talk about the way her mother would bake. I’d have her taste test my newest recipes.

Visiting home meant daily Grandma visits and the last visit on a trip to PA was always the hardest. As the days ticked closer to my departure, she knew. She would talk about how she loved the visits and how she knew I had my life in New York. There was no guilt trip. Just simple facts. I know you have to get back to everything but you can come visit anytime. I’ll set up a bed for you.

As a child, my grandparents lived close enough for day trips but there were many times we’d intentionally plan to spend the night. There were other times we’d spontaneously decide to spend the night and those were my favorite. We’d use our fingers to brush our teeth with their toothpaste and we’d claim our various beds and sofas. It always felt to me as though we were being a little naughty. Here we are, doing something out of the plan! We aren’t even using real toothbrushes!  

These last couple years, I’d joke about bringing a sleeping bag and spending the night. I’d joke about moving in. We’d laugh and tell stories and share photos until one day, it would be the day before I left and then one day I’d have to count the months until the next visit. 

Once, saying goodbye, I started to cry. And then she started to cry. None of that, she’d said. I’ll see you very soon. You better get going. 

And I’d walked to the parking lot and I’d cried. And I’d wondered if that was the last time. 

And so that became the routine of the last visit of each trip. Cry in the car. Cry knowing how much fun we had together. Cry because of how much joy was shared. Cry leaving. 

Last month, in between work trips to Denver and Jamaica, I stopped in PA to give a talk at a high school for The Smile Project. I went to visit and saw what I’d heard from my mom and through my less-frequent-now phone calls. My brilliant and sharp grandma was confused and anxious. She wanted to go home. Home to her childhood. Home where it took a nickel to ride the bus. Home with aunts and uncles and cousins who have long passed. Home to Toledo. Home with her parents. Home with my grandpa. 

Over a decade ago, I spent a summer working at an all dementia nursing home. I thought of all I learned there. And I used those lessons to attempt to provide some comfort and care during our visit. 

When it was time to leave, I gave her a hug. I kissed her forehead. I told her I loved her. I told her I would see her tomorrow. Tomorrow I was flying to Jamaica. It was the first time I ever lied to my grandmother. It was the last time I had to say goodbye. 

The Friday before she passed, my mom told me she was being moved to end of life care. It was both a shock and an expectation. Shock, because physically she remained, even at 94, incredibly, wildly, willfully strong. Expectation, because how does one live through this kind of mental decline? 

Even today, I find myself wanting to call. I find myself collecting stories in the back of my mind to share. I wonder if I ever told her that the reason I have a candy jar in my apartment today is because of the candy jar she kept on the piano growing up. I know she knew we took chocolates by the handful before leaving their house each visit.

I look at the collection of photos of my best friend’s kids. The videos and pictures that could lift my grandma’s spirit on even her worst days. She knew them by name and would watch the videos with the biggest smile before asking me when I was going to have kids. Oh you know, eventually. Showing her my foster dog last summer—it turns out—did not count. 

I’ve been wanting to write about my grandma but I’ve been unsure where to begin. I sat down tonight, actually, to write about the Birthday Giveback. To write about how special it felt to receive texts and messages from people telling me how they were honoring the grandparents (or grandparent figures) in their life. But it is impossible to write that story without at least writing a small piece of my grandma’s.

My grandma was an independent and strong woman. She was a gifted musician who instilled the love of music into her children and grandchildren. She worked hard in her professional career. She raised four amazing kids. She cared deeply for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She loved my grandfather and he idolized her. She believed in community and kindness and showing up for one another. She had the best sense of humor and no matter what was going on in my life, I left every single phone call with her feeling better than when I’d originally dialed. 

The way I choose to remember the people I love is by speaking their memory. By living their actions. By taking the love I had for them and attempting to multiply it out into the world around me. By asking others to do the same. 

I was working from my favorite coffee shop yesterday and receiving message after message from people in The Smile Project community who made a point this week to call their grandparents… to write a letter… to send flowers… to sign up to volunteer… to reconnect… to say I love you… to act as if. 

And I sipped on my tea and I felt a wave of emotion thinking about how one woman’s legacy—when vocalized, when celebrated, when lived—can be the ripple effects for further connection. I sat down to write a short blog. A thank you, really, to everyone who participated. I sat down to say that I would be sharing the winners of the giveaway soon. I sat down so I could write something and post something and cross it off my to-do list. 

I wanted to write about my grandma but I wasn’t sure I was ready.

But then I started typing. And I thought about when I started to learn to play piano as a little girl. How I’d go to visit and lift their piano bench and pull out the incredibly old song books and try to play them. I think about how dreadful it must have been—to hear my repetitive playing of more advanced music than my tiny hands could handle. 

I started typing and I thought about picnics at the wooden playground and I thought of running around in the backyard and that singing plant they had. I thought of trying on my grandma’s costume jewelry and trading clip-on earrings with my cousins. I thought about my Aunt Pat who was never really my aunt but rather my grandma’s best friend and how their friendship showed me the importance of girlhood at all ages. 

I started typing and remembered how I was always put in charge of the “dessert plate” after holiday dinners and how seriously I took my role of arranging cookies and pastries onto a plate to share at the table. How this first foray into hosting, this highly important responsibility (or at least it felt so at this time), runs a direct line to my love of hospitality today.

I started typing and saw a grandma taking care of her babies and grandbabies. Saw a grandma showing up with Dunkin Donuts—an assorted dozen but always one each of my brothers and I’s favorites. Saw a grandma coming to stay with me in high school when I was home alone and came down with strep throat. 

Saw a grandma who loved me so much she gave me permission to go. To leave. A grandma who loved every visit but never asked me to come home. A grandma who could at the same time hold her love of our togetherness and her dreams for my desire to see the world. 

Saw a grandma who made me brave enough to try. 

Thank you for helping me honor her memory for this year’s Birthday Giveback. It’s the blessing of a lifetime to be loved into the best version of ourselves.