What a Drag it is Getting Old...

My dad used to sing this line whenever the topic of aging came up when I was younger.

[It's from a Rolling Stones song called "Mother's Little Helper," and I'm pretty sure he never sang the rest of the lyrics to us. Abuse of prescription pills by stay-at-home moms wasn't really his musical topic of choice.]

I've been thinking of this line quite a bit lately. My grandma and grandpa are 81 and 83, respectively, and their health has deteriorated pretty drastically this last year. When I was a baby and my mom went back to work, my grandparents watched me. My grandpa was a retired Longshoreman, and my grandma was a stay-at-home mom all her adult life, since she had nine kids. I was always close to them, especially my grandma. She let Natalie and I watch "Cops" and "America's Most Wanted" when we were over, made the world's best pancakes, and has a terrific sense of humor.

(She's also the one who peer-pressured me into my first alcoholic drink--a margarita after Mass when I was 18. [Yes, 18. I was a pretty good kid.] I'll never let her live that one down.)

When we moved to the desert, my grandparents bought a property just down the road from us, so they could be around while we grew up. My sister and I used to walk over there all the time, and just hang out with them. They have been impossibly generous, encouraging, and two loving constants in our lives.

In my mind, they'll always remain about 65--the age they were when I was in junior high, and old enough to have clear, solid memories of them. Memories of my grandma yelling "SALAS!" (their last name, and her nickname for my grandpa) across the property when dinner was ready. Memories of dancing with my grandpa as a kid, Twist-and-Shouting into the evening. And, most vividly, memories of them taking us to Disneyland regularly, my grandpa SCREAMING in mock-terror every time we saw the Abominable Snowman on the Matterhorn, and Grandma buying us churros.

Unfortunately, they're not 65 anymore, or even 75. There are no more trips to Disneyland with them, and the dancing with my grandpa stopped years ago. Dozens of surgeries on my grandpa, a minor stroke with my grandma, and numerous health issues have rendered them unable to care for themselves on a day-to-day basis.

Last year, my sister moved in with them in San Pedro, to be my grandma's primary caregiver, and to help out with my grandpa. I will be eternally grateful for her selflessness, because this has not been an easy task. We get our stubbornness from my grandma, who insists on being as self-sufficient as she can, even when it's dangerous (like taking her walker up the stairs to do laundry). And my grandpa's ailments have taken the use of his legs, and now his hands. Their illnesses have progressed to a point where they need round-the-clock care.

My grandpa is currently in the hospital with pneumonia and a blood infection. I went down to see him yesterday, and my heart broke for him. To see him in that hospital bed, trying to move from side-to-side, unable to find a comfortable position, was almost too much.

After about fifteen minutes, I felt a panic attack coming on, and had to find an abandoned corner of the wing to cry and breathe. I felt so annoyed with myself. My mom was there, and seeing your dad like that has to be devastating. Although this was a particularly bad day, my sister lives with this new reality daily. I haven't been around nearly as much as I should, and I can't make it fifteen minutes? Awful. I composed myself and went back in for about four hours, just holding his hand, making jokes, and visiting with a number of cousins, aunts, and uncles who came down to see him.

It's a day later now, and the disappointment in myself hasn't left. My sister asked me to come back out today, and so I'm leaving here in a couple of hours to spend the night with them and do whatever I can to just be there for my family.

Unfortunately, I'm a bit of a brat, and felt a wave of disappointment that my Sunday with Clay (and the day off I requested for tomorrow) are going to be spent in a hospital, watching my grandparents suffer. I know--I'm awful and selfish and incredibly self-centered. It's almost impossible to say this out loud without asking to be slapped, but it's much easier to put down into words.

I know my mom and sister would be understanding and say, "Hey, we get it. Nobody wants to be here and have to see this. Of course you'd rather be having a glass of wine on the patio and listening to music. That's not a horrible thing."

But, really, it is.

My mother is watching her parents suffer, and my sister has moved in to help them during this heartbreaking, difficult time. I need to be there. It is truly the absolute least I can do. I don't know what I can contribute. I know I'm good in an emergency, but this isn't an emergency. This is a slow, sad march toward things I don't want to think about.

Natalie told me that she, my mom and my grandma would appreciate the moral support. I know she didn't mean anything by it, but I couldn't help but think "Moral support? That can't be all I'm good for. I can do more!" Unfortunately, I can't do anything revolutionary. The only thing I want is for my grandparents to become miraculously healthy and outlive us all. The only thing I can do is hold my family's hands and try to lighten the mood with jokes, music, or inane YouTube videos. It's better than nothing, but not by much.

So, I'll drive out there. I'll hold their hands, tell some jokes, and give out dozens of hugs. I'll make sure my family eats, and bring a Disney movie and maybe have a manicure party with the girls, if we can. And I will be a better daughter, sister, and granddaugher than I have been. I will be there, as much as I reasonably can. I haven't been around as much as I should, but it's not too late to change that now. While they're here, I want to see them and make sure they know how utterly loved and appreciated they are.

I'll call my mom more often, and text my dad. Clay and I are taking Natalie to Disneyland in a week, and I'm beginning to see how something as selfish (for me) as wanting a big Happiest Place on Earth hurrah with my sister before she moves, is going to be a much-needed outing for her.

I will be better. They all need me to be better.

And, maybe, in five or ten years, I'll be able to look back on this time and realize that being around for my grandparents in the end will have been almost as transformative as having them around since the beginning.