I AM
I am me, a daughter, sister,
Child of God, wife, mother and grandmother.
I became a daughter, sister, and
grandmother because of choices others made.
I became a Child of God, wife, and mother due to choices I made. And the “me” part of who I am is ever
changing.
One of my roles in life was
chosen for me by others. What role, you
ask. I am the “sick/hospital” grandma
for our daughter’s four boys.
I need to insert a note here. Except for her first two surgeries, I have
been the one waiting as Terri had surgeries.
Jon, Terri’s husband and dad to those four boys, is not — bless his
heart — good at being in a hospital. Note
two: Unless I am the one in the hospital, we do not let Bill — bless his heart
— go either. What is it with men? For us, it works best if I am there and calls
and texts keep everyone else informed.
When did the boys assign me this
role of sick/hospital grandma?
Although I had helped when
Matthew was sick, I think this really started when Matthew was about two. He had to stay overnight, in the hospital,
and Terri could not stay with him. She
was nursing Matthew’s new brother, Joshua, and only one person was allowed to
stay. Now, common sense would tell you
that a baby should not be counted, but a very stern nurse said, “The rule is
one.” I told Terri, “You go home. I will stay.
He will sleep and you can be here early.” With that, she pushed the tears back, put on a
smile, and said, “Grandma is staying here with you.” Matthew quit crying before Terri got to the
elevator. I am sure Terri cried all the
way home.
From then on, I was the
“sick/hospital” grandma for those boys. Over
the years, I have made trips to Rochester to sit with one or the other of them
after the plea, "I don’t feel good.
Can you come over?” Of course, I
went. I imagine they returned to school
and said, “I don’t need a doctor’s slip.
Grandma will tell you how sick I was.”
Then — remember there are four
boys — surgeries began. Tim, boy #4, was
the first to have surgery. He had a cyst
removed from his hand. Yes, I was there,
but I doubt if he remembers it. He was
small.
I was still on restrictions,
after foot surgery, when I received a call from Joshua, boy #2, “Grandma, I
have to have surgery. I told them you
would need a chair and you had to have your feet up. My room is close to the elevator or we can
get a wheel chair. You will be here,
right?”
Of course I was. I was there when they brought him back to the
room and I was there to hold his hand while his mom went home to get a shower.
“I have to have my tonsils out,”
Tim said. Oh my. Little Tim.
So cute. So, so ornery! “You will be there, right?”
Of course I was. I was there when he took the hand of the
nurse, picked up Monkey George, and walked down the hall. Yes, walked.
With children anything to help them not be scared is a blessing. I was there when he came back to recovery and
was the lucky one to be standing there when he got sick. He went home and I helped so his mom could
work. He told us over and over, “I
didn’t scream and cry like that other kid.” He was very proud of that. Many years later, I was at Riley hospital
when he needed surgery.
“Did you check with grandma to
make sure that date works for her?” Joshua asked his mother.
Of course the date worked. Any date would have worked. Now a college student, some joint problems
needed corrected so off to South Bend we went.
We went again when more surgery was needed. As they were dismissing him, he asked, “Can
you get the car nice and warm for me?”
Of course I went out — in the
cold — started the car and had it toasty warm when he and his mother climbed in. It also seems my car goes to surgeries. It is easier to get into than their vehicles.
Noah, boy number 3, feeling left
out, corrected that emotion by stepping on something in the river and – you
guessed it – had to have surgery on his foot.
This time I was not there.
Neither was his mother. Nor
anyone else. COVID restrictions would
not allow anyone in the hospital with him.
We waited at home. Let me tell
you something – not being able to hug Noah before they wheeled him off to
surgery and knowing he would have to wake up in a room by himself was not
easy. It seemed like days, not hours,
waiting for the phone to ring and to hear the words, “He is out of surgery and
doing fine.”
How could he be fine? He was alone!
And just last week, Matthew, who
is 25 and no longer little, had surgery.
Was I there?
Of course I was there. And so was my car.
Sometimes roles that others give
us are not roles we want. This one — the
sick/hospital grandma role — is one I am honored to have. It means those boys trust me.
