I'm pretty excited about spending this summer with grandmum. I remember when I was in second grade, still a single child, she moved into what eventually became my brother's room. That was the year that I discovered I actually *liked* homemade Chinese food. I was introduced to a whole new world of handmade "pulled" noodles (you cut the dough into strips and pull them right before dropping it into boiling water), handmade dumplings, slivers of veggies stir fried with meat, and stuffed spicy peppers. Every now and then, she'd humor me, hand me a lump of dough to play with, and I would earnestly try to roll it out. No matter how hard I tried, they never turned into those perfect little circles ready for wrapping dumplings. For those of you in the neuropsych world, I'll just say that if there were a VMI equivalent, based on my round dough-rolling capabilities, I'd be in OT. Even worse, in trying to wrap those dumplings, mine would inevitably break apart in water and just never be pretty at all. !Que sadness! S= 4, 2nd percentile.
Times have obviously changed much in the last twenty-plus years. I gained an amazing brother. My grandparents became not just visitors, but an enormous part of my childhood growing up--walking me to school, cooking dinner, spending time when I came home afterschool, and becoming my extra parents. I tried on multiple occasions to get my grandma to teach me to cook but as far as I can tell, measuring cups and spoons just didn't exist in pre-war China. You cooked with what you had, and that made the idea of recipes impossible. "Just add some of this" or "I did nothing" and somehow we were five steps ahead with a miracle meal on the table. (Or maybe I was just a terrible student). My grandparents eventually moved to a place of their own nearby. I moved away for grad school and without easy access to decent reasonably priced Chinese food, I started learning to cook it myself. (Although I still have not managed to make perfect circles despite trying to cheat and buy an American rolling pin instead). And my grandparents have aged.
When it became clear it was impossible to keep in touch with my grandparents via phone or email, I tried moving back to Boston to be closer to my grandparents while I still could see them. But between multiple work demands and other family circumstances, I never quite had the same time I expected to have to hang out. I'd leave work and I knew it would be too late to bring dinner. I'd cook dinner on a Saturday to bring over but then it'd start pouring. I'd wait out the rain before contending with walking to the bus station to wait for the bus, and then it'd end up being too late. I knew I was pushing it with timing, and hemmed and hawed and agonized over my next job placement--one was pushing a hundred and the other pushing ninety. Was I making the right choice by moving, yet again? And then I thought I'd at least be noncommital in July so I'd have more time to spend with my grandparents, family and friends--the life I thought I'd have when I moved back to Boston...
And then my grandfather died after a sudden accident and life turned upside down while I was in the midst of other life changes. Eeks. In all honesty, as much as I miss him and am sad to see him go, he was healthy and never had to suffer in ways I've seen other relatives or patients' families have suffered from illness. It was the most humane end of life I could ever hope for anyone. That said, I am still kicking myself for those times I chose to turn left instead go right. The times I could have just dealt with the rain and brought over food. The times I could have gone over instead of sleep in. It's too late now for regrets. I thought I'd have July with both grandparents and I don't. But I'm incredibly grateful and lucky to have at least July with my grandmum--time to sit, time to listen, time to cook, time to eat. It's the first true summer vacation / time-off I've had in ten years and it's nice to keep her company and have hers. She's losing her ability to form new memories but she's still lucid enough to generally know who I am and tell old stories or sing songs of the past. Who else gets to live within a live mental documentary? I might be one of the luckiest folks on earth.
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