Dreaming is Hard, Leaving is Harder
by McKenna Seiger
University of the Incarnate Word
McKenna Seiger is a second year student at the University of the Incarnate Word. Majoring in Fashion Design with a minor in Journalism, McKenna hopes to one day write about the world around her as well as criticism of today's fashion sustainability crisis.
Sometimes memories of her come to me in dreams so vivid I wake up in cold sweat. Sometimes it is only pieces of her I see like, her favorite OPI nail polish or the photograph of her brother she kept on her nightstand. No matter the dream, I only see her for how she was - rarely young but never older than 70. I dream of her in the waiting room of my dance studio, legs crossed, reading a copy of ‘Better Homes and Gardens’ with small rectangular glasses perched on her button nose. She is always the only person in the room and I am nine again, in my black leotard and pink tights tapping her knee when class is finished. She always smiles in these dreams, closing her magazine and helping me step back into my street shoes. She tucks my small hand into hers; we always leave slowly, passing photographs of unnamed ballerinas until we walk together in the bright nothingness. I dream of her most when she would sing me to sleep, combing my hair away from my face and cradling me in her arms: she would kiss my forehead and some nights if I was lucky, she would fall asleep with me. Together we would doze face to face, my whale nightlight illuminating warm yellow stars on my ceiling. No matter the dream it always ends with me waking up, empty. She is downstairs after every dream, but unlike my dreams there is never a smile, never a song. Somedays she is happy almost idle, like a car out of commission; those are the good days.
She sits at the kitchen table cursing at herself and flipping through a full legal pad she keeps in order to remember simple things: my phone number, her favorite channels on the television, names of family members and the address to her doctors office. When she sees me she is embarrassed, drying the tears that stain her cheeks, calling me by my mothers’ name in voice that sounds something like a moan. She asks me to help her find the number eight on her cellphone’s keypad. This is normal for her now, forgetting numbers and names and faces, her brain like a broken rolodex. Constantly spinning, information falling out too fast. It is painful to watch but even harder to look away but I try my best to busy myself in the kitchen so she doesn’t get the impression that I’m looming. I begin sorting through the medications she keeps on the counter, my eyes cutting to her slowly whenever she mumbles to herself. She used to be beautiful with auburn hair down to her waist, wide honeycomb eyes and the sharpest wit. In passing I had heard stories of her from before I was born, of the men who had fawned at her, of the places she had traveled and the family whom she loved. However, I am not sure she would know any of that now, as that woman seems to have never existed at all. I set out the medication she needs for today in a purple pill box she uses to feel in control of her situation: Exelon for her memory, Apizaban she takes for blood thinners, various herbal vitamins to aid with her diabetes. They look so pretty splayed together like this, like an abstract painting; finding beauty in something so disparaging makes up for things in my mind. I close the pillbox and align it neatly on the kitchen island, glancing at her every so often to make sure she hasn’t passed out at the table over her nonsensical work.
In the beginning, it was hard to notice a change at all. I would come home, drop my keys on the coffee table and wander around the house calling out her name. Sometimes she would answer, but most of the time she would sit in front of her beloved piano, fingers lingering on keys as she tried to translate sheet music. In those times, she would always wake up at five in the morning, pouring herself a cup of coffee and make a list of the important things she wanted to accomplish. Sometimes she’d laugh at herself and ask me to help tie her tennis shoes, or ask me to remind her of where our thermostat was located. She’d kiss my forehead and send me off to school; waving me off from the porch, dressed up to stay at home until I returned. It was in the beginning when she began taking classes at the senior center while I was away, classes on how to make dinner for two and use a laptop computer. In the beginning times… those were the last times I remembered having a grandmother. It was as if one day the roles were reversed and suddenly she was the confused child she left. She needed a constant caregiver, one we couldn’t afford; so it was me who changed her diapers and dressed her. She would look at me like a wild animal, like I wasn’t truly there in front of her; her eyes empty like deep holes, so vast I feared I would fall in if I stayed there too long. She would go on to forget my name, my face, my hobbies - she would nod in understanding when I corrected her but I knew it was too hard for her. So I let her forget all parts of me, while I remembered every part of her.
There are nights my dreams present themselves as nightmares. I am seven, and the newfound knowledge of death scares me. It is just me and her in this moment as she consoles me in our living room, the sound of the television going on behind us. She smells of expensive perfume I can’t remember, and her long manicured nails draw circles on my nightgown clad back. I ask her to promise me she’ll never leave me, that she won’t ever die. She laughs in a sweet almost doting way that parents do to silly children with silly ideas. I won’t leave for a long long time and when I do… well baby you’ll have your own family and you won’t need me anymore. But my silly girl, I won’t leave you until you’re ready. In that dream, she folds me into her like I am an infant again. We are swimming in warmth wrapped together as one, it is only in this terror we can unite in this way.
Doctors will tell you grief can appear to you in memories, it can come in dreams of longing or days of reminiscence. They will prepare you for the days your childhood home will fall quiet, what to do when you come home and she isn’t breathing. They will leave you with numbers to call and people to clean out her room. They do not tell you what comes before, the way she will always need you even if you never stopped needing her. They will never tell you how to be ready.