There are a few complications in the human mind that we rarely address on purpose, but that throughout our lives we are forced to come to terms with on our own. These include the question of faith and which religion (if any) is best to pursue; the question of life and what our purpose here is; and finally, the question which I am becoming more and more concerned about, the question of love.
It seems like the more you want to understand what love is the more you have to wait to find out. I'm nineteen, and no closer now to figuring out what those emotions really are then I was at the beginning of the year. Usually when you don't understand something you gain your knowledge from those around you. Like children who learn not to put cheerios up their nose because the adults don't do it (but they might put them up their nose just in case anyway)
The examples I turn to are naturally my family and the people around me I see in relationships. And I've learned a little something about love from all of them. But over Christmas Break, I received the longest and possibly most confusing lesson from two people very dear to me: my grandparents.
My grandfather was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease a few years ago, and as his health has steadily decreased the family has tried to adjust accordingly. Over Thanksgiving I had the opportunity to see that while his body was breaking, his spirit was definitely not, and I'm happy to say that this was still the case when we visited over Christmas break. He was physically drained, and more frail than at Thanksgiving (I cannot express with words what it does to the emotions to know that you can support the weight of the patriarch of your family with one arm) yet his pride still remained as undamaged as a lion. He found the strength to sit up and greet us, and to follow the conversation as best he could, and then to "walk" us out to the hallway and remain standing, perhaps a little forlornly and a little smaller, as we disappeared from sight. I know because I kept looking back. I always seem to look back.
Everyone tries to find something that is the most important to them, and drives them to keep waking up each morning. For some it's work, for others money or fame, and for some it's enough to just know they have another day to live. For my grandparents money is not a huge issue, and they have done their fair share of hard labor throughout the years. They could sum up their "most precious" thing in one word: family. This is why my Grandma cries each year as we part ways after Thanksgiving dinner, and why photos of us grandchildren almost drown the refrigerator, and why both of them ever attempted to solve the puzzling cases called "Internet" and "email."
So when Grandma heard we were coming down for a visit, she treated us to lunch and smiled from ear to ear the whole time. She told us stories of her wonderful travels with Grandpa, and some of the friends they made along the way. As a child I'd seen the giant world map spread out on the wall downstairs, with pushpins marking out every city and sight they had seen over their lifetimes. But it's one thing to count hundreds of multicolored pins, and quite another to actually imagine each unique destination for yourself. Jerusalem...China...Spain...Russia...they have seen it all. They were welcomed as celebrities in Beijing, where few if any tourists had ever ventured before; they were held at gunpoint in London on a train by a troubled woman who disliked Americans; they had pen pals from around the world and survived wars, depressions, and troubling times together. They had truly lived, and now found themselves at that threshold where the end of one's road can be spotted, and when more and more people that had entered their lives were now quietly exiting.
Yet both of them remain so strong. So solid. Grandma paid the check and refused to let us argue about it. We all drove over to the home where Grandpa was living, and when we entered the room Grandma excused herself for a moment while we greeted Grandpa with hugs and stories. When Grandma returned she was dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief, and I realized that she had been fixing her make-up in front of the large brass mirror in the other room. Like the young lady who nervously fixes her hair before a first date, Grandma still felt the need to "freshen up" and look her best for her husband. It was endearing and adorable, and I smiled to know that their years of marriage hadn't faded that affection.
Grandma has patience beyond that of a thousand women. Parkinson's does things to the memory, and there were more than a few stories of Grandpa asking an attendant who the "beautiful lady" in his room was. When told that it was his wife, he would exclaim "no kidding!" Slightly over-protective, Grandpa lost his telephone privileges calling Grandma at all hours of the day or night to see where she was and what she was doing and whether she was safe. Sometimes you can actually FEEL the exhaustion coming off of her in waves. But she always manages to shake it off and face her husband with kindness even when he becomes irrational and fussy. As Grandma put it, "Parkinson's is not the nicest guest to invite itself over, but we're doing the best we can."
The feel of the home and its staff is not unpleasant, but there is a hint of loneliness and sadness in the corners of the hallways and the shadows of each patients' eyes. A smiling woman poked her head in the room to invite Grandpa to a New Year's Eve party in the commons room, and his face only registered annoyance at the intrusion to his fortress of solitude. "I'm NOT going!" he announced to the room in general, and we nodded and distracted him with other things. When it was time for us to go he refused the offered arms of Grandma and my dad, preferring to stand on his own. When he felt himself falling he quietly asked my brother and I to assist him, his pride a little wounded but less so because he asked our help himself.
As we disappeared around the corner and I took one last glance at them, I saw Grandpa holding resolutely to his walker, leaning slightly on his wife, who supported his weight easily and without comment. Both of them stayed smiling, arm in arm, until the very last moment, when they let a little of the mask slip and the tired perseverance show through.
The whole experience made me think, not of the fragile existence we all share, but of the strength that love gives us. Would I have the strength to go to my husband's side long after he could no longer recognize me? Would I have the patience to endure day after lonely day in a foreign place, living for the moments when my partner would arrive, full of love and caring?
What am I talking about? I already spend day after day in a foreign place. But at least this place has friendly faces, and distracting classes, and a constant whispering of "you can do this...you can GO places." I just hope that someday the kind of eternal, all-enduring love of my grandparents will find me, and that I'll be able to recognize it when it comes.
