Most of us spend too much time on what is urgent and not enough time on what is important. (Stephen Covey)
My husband, younger son, youngest granddaughter and I have traveled across two states to visit my 94-year-old mother-in-law. Daylight has barely replaced darkness as Ella climbs onto the foot of her great grandmother’s bed. Nana is awake; she greets her, and then closes her eyes again. Ella leans toward her. “Wake up!”
Great grandmother shows no sign of hearing. She sleeps most of the time. After Nana rouses she complains that the little girl was something of a pain. However, she doesn’t seem to hold a grudge. The two adore one another. I have no doubt that Ella sees into the older woman’s spirit and recognizes a need for a laugh or two before she moves into another dimension, whenever that time arrives. Nana was in hospice care, and then improved. She is one tenacious lady.
I have heard that people in the last stages of life appear to be unresponsive, but they hear every sound. I decide to be quieter as I work in the kitchen, bang fewer pots as I dry them, raise my voice only when absolutely necessary—or when I share something uplifting about Nana’s life.
I feel the spirit of late Midwestern autumn during this visit. The wind blows the last of the tenacious don’t-wanna-let-go-yet leaves from one yard to another. Most deciduous trees are bare, or sparse. The red and yellow patterns have already turned to a crisp brown, ready to be crushed underfoot, dissolving along with the experiences of past seasons. Winter is inevitable. Nothing lasts forever.
In Nana’s room Ella pretends to be a bear, growling as Nana responds with feigned fear. “Save me! I’m so scared.”
Wild Woman has replaced Wild Man, my name for her daddy as he was growing up. And we celebrate both past and present, even as time moves on an inevitable course. I wonder if time were unlimited how much of it I would savor, how much I would waste. At age twenty-five my youth seemed invincible. My head knew clocks don’t travel in reverse except in fantasy. But the days until my next vacation seemed as uncountable as slender grains of rice. Old age lived in the next century, an era beginning in the year 2000—as far away as Jupiter or Mars. Now that year has passed. I’m not sure when I will embrace the term old. But I know each moment is important and must be used well.
So I tell my mother-in-law that I chose to spend more time with my grandchildren because she had chosen to spend time with my children. She showed me how beautiful and strong the bond with a young person could become.
Ella smiles and reaches for me. We will be sitting next to one another during the drive back across two states. I couldn’t ask for a better traveling companion.
terrypetersen 