My ninety-year-old grandma talks like she'll live forever. Yesterday, she told me that she can't wait until the elections are over (there was a cover story on TV about John Edward's affair, which was trumping the actual political candidates' stories). She also corrected my grandpa on how he was loading the dish washer (she told him to place the utensils so that the eating surfaces faced upward; that way they would get cleaner. I told her that I often place some utensils up and some down but that my sister is very particular about how she loads the dishwasher, to which my grandma responded, "I'm that way too.").
I've been thinking about why it is that I keep preparing myself for my grandma to die (one reason is that I will be totally devastated), while my grandma lives as if she’ll live forever.
Today, I was thinking about how I like that my grandma tells me to come back and visit, that she asks me how California was and that she’d love to be sitting on the beach right now watching the dolphins, and that she is aware of what’s happening in the world and cares which way the utensils are inserted in the dishwasher.
I think my grandma has one of those iron wills to live. She values life. And me? I think my will just isn’t that strong. I’m afraid I’d be talking about my broken bones (my grandma has some) and about how I didn’t know if I would make it one more day (my grandma told me a story about almost not waking up at dialysis, but that’s as close as she’s ever come to talking about death. And even then she was irritated that the tech didn't shake her awake and call the nurse).
Anyway, sometimes, I wish that I were a little more like my grandma.
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