Beautiful

When my grandmother was in her last days, I visited having not seen her for months. I was in my early twenties and careless about how important a visit could be. When I got there, it was a shock. She was lying in bed, 90-pounds, pale, and far, far away. But what I still remember is how beautiful she was. Raw and real, fully herself, nothing more, nothing less. She had been colorful: floppy hats with fake flowers tacked to the brim, orange and pink blouses, red nail polish, with a big, fun-loving personality. To see her in her last days was to see who she was without the frills. It was simply her and I found her more beautiful than ever.

In the last few weeks, I saw that same beauty in my mother. I was able to spend two-and-a-half weeks as her caregiver until we could find professional help. I’ve been thinking a lot about the difference between caring for an infant and caring for a parent as they decline. Some people describe it as a role reversal. I didn’t feel it that way. It was just too different.

When I was caring for Forrest as a newborn, there was joy and discovery. We were introducing ourselves to one another, creating something new from a blank slate.

With Mom, there’s history. Times when we understood one another, and times when we didn’t. None of that mattered these last few weeks. She let me care for her. There wasn’t much need for words. There was touch, gratitude, eye contact, and holding hands, which was all either of us needed. 

Like her mother, she is and always has been, Beautiful.