We knew her as "
Gramma Della". My Mother's mother, born in the early 1890's died in the mid 1960's. She was widowed in 1951 before I was born. What
I remember about my grandmother is sketchy and interestingly, coming back into my consciousness now in the form of flashbacks; largely as images and conversations overheard between my parents as they witnessed her mental deterioration. I suspect these flashbacks are the work of my brain, linking up commonalities between past memories and what is happening now with my Mother.
That these snippets of remembrance reassure me may seem odd. What I see in my Mother, I have seen before. Do mothers and daughters follow a similar path as they age? I have to wonder. What will this be like for my sister and me should we breathe into our ninth and tenth decades of life? Are there things we might do now to stay clearer mentally or is the genetic component moving ahead silently?
We visited my
Gramma Della in Cornwall, Ontario where she lived in a small first floor "apartment" of an older house. She also spent a number of months in Aruba when I was a young girl. My memories draw from these two very different scenes. I was between 8 and 11 years old and impressionable.
Della was a deeply religious woman; I watched her read from an old, frayed, black leather bound Bible regularly. She quoted scripture to me although I don't remember what I thought about this except that it was over my head and I must be polite. She often wrote in her Bible. When she died, my Mother gifted Della's Bible to Nora. I believe Nora kept it until she died in 2001 but what happened to this piece of history after this is unknown to me.
Whenever we visited Cornwall, the day of departure was heavy with a sober sadness. There were tears when time came for us to pull out of the driveway. Della dreaded saying goodbye as if any goodbye might be the last one. Separation from loved ones living overseas with a long journey ahead and many months or years before the next gathering were the norm. There was always a lengthy prayer on those days, on our knees in front of the old upholstered, musty smelling furniture. Because we never prayed like this at home, I took this posture with some reluctance and bewilderment. It felt a bit scary and I was thankful when we were finished and could leave. Della would ask for the Lord's blessing upon us as we traveled and that we might all meet again. In my youthful mind, I could not imagine why we must feel so vulnerable.
I also remember searching for the coveted "four leaf clover" at the side of her house in Cornwall; Della made this a hobby and Mom, to this day, finds it hard to resist at least a look for a four leaf clover whenever we walk past grassy spots. Searching for the earth's promise of good luck was sport when television, games, and the like were out of the question. Visiting Della's home was about prayer and living a "God-
ly" life but speckled with the partaking of good food, some laughs and the quest for the clover sporting a fourth leaf.
When Della lived with us in Aruba, she spent her days in a rocking chair on the enclosed front porch of Bungalow 553, facing the open coral rock and glistening sea. She ate an orange and apple with a slice of cheese for breakfast most days. She read the Bible. She enjoyed our pets, several dogs and a cat or two. She cast a quiet exterior towards me as a youngster. I never remember any meaningful conversations with her. She rarely left the house, a reluctance to "go and do" that may have been her ingrained style as she aged. I suspect she was quite bored and recall that Mom used to encourage her to take up her past interests in tatting and other needlework. She refused.
Della's forgetfulness worsened over time. Days blended one into the next and she never knew for sure of the date, time, or what was happening. She often asked me the same question multiple times during the day; things like my age and where she might find this or that, something misplaced. My parents discussed her situation constantly; in front of me and sometimes overheard. I guess that was fine; it was all truthful. They were as conflicted about how to deal with the faltering memory of a loved one as I am now. Constant cuing, visual reminders, and reinforcement takes you only so far. A mind overcome by significant cognitive impairment is a sad state of affairs; what more can be said?
Della's "addiction" was to the cathartic in
castor oil. She would overdose herself because she could never remember if she had taken it or not. When she took too much she would pay the price. My parents, in exasperation, resorted to having her "sign" for each tablespoon after she took a dose. The bottle was in the kitchen and the page with her signatures, date and time were close by. This worked for awhile but then she denied that the signature from an hour prior was hers, insisting that someone had maliciously written her name and she was being denied access to a medication she needed. I heard frustration and pain in my parents' conversations. "Poor Mama", "This is so difficult" and "Della's mind is gone" were commonplace. Her personality turning suspicious allowed the usual placid exterior to gave way to critical, defiant, and occasionally hurtful comments directed at my parents.
Once I remember Mom sharing with me that Della's mind had "come back" briefly; that Della could see what was happening, was embarrassed and ashamed of her behavior, and broke down into tears. My Mother wrapped her arms around her and they cried together. I filed this bit of information away and never bothered to wonder how it might be possible for someone to snap out of confusion and become aware only to slip back into old patterns. I know now that this is common.
Della Mary
Hawn was her maiden name, stunningly beautiful. She married James
Bain, a
Weslayan Methodist preacher and bore four children; my mother, the only girl was the youngest and born in 1917. Jim
Bain died of a massive stroke in 1951, leaving her a widow for the next fifteen years. Della was of short stature (barely 5 feet tall), plump in later years, and always wore her hair pinned up. She dressed plainly and I remember her wearing an apron, even when she wasn't cooking. The return address on her letters always read "Mrs.
Jas A.
Bain". These memories pick an interesting, perhaps predictable time to creep up from the depths of my mind.
Mom calls out for Della at night in her dreams. "Mama! Mama! Mama!", she will say. I don't disturb her when I hear this; perhaps she is connecting to Della as I hope I can do when my Mother is gone from this realm. I once asked Mom, through blinding tears, what it was like to lose a parent. I was feeling very vulnerable back in 1991 when I left Houston to move to Seattle and even then, fearful that I might not see my Mother again, despite her young age of 74. I wish I could remember exactly her response; something about it being "hard" but getting through. Is that all there is to know I wonder?
