The Banana Bread Legacy

Is it okay that I wish for my grandmother to die? 

Weekends as an elementary school student consisted of this: going home, packing my small blue suitcase to the brim with everything unnecessary, hopping in the car, and driving, with a beaming smile on my face, to my grandmother, Omie’s, condominium in Mays Chapel. I’d spend the night with her, having the time of my life. Every weekend.

The memories from that small condominium are the ones I will forever cherish. She bought me a red Razor scooter, which I’d ride down the small hallway in her cramped but homey apartment. I would then ride that scooter down the sidewalk, towards the asphalt path, and we'd park it next to the wood stairs while we walked to the nearby shopping center, buying Swedish Fish at Graul’s and stopping at Wild Birds Unlimited so she could talk to the owner, and I, with my animated six year old energy, could stick my hand in all the bird seed canisters, feel their various textures, and could ring all the windchimes. 

Back at her house, we used that birdseed to fill bird feeders that hung on her little tree. We sat outside in the evenings, watching the birds eat the seeds scattered on the sidewalk and the squirrels fight for their territory. We would eat chips called Quakes, an appetizer before dinner, and I would always sneak more from the bag. She’d teach me bird names while I'd laugh at the “silly squirrels,” and we’d talk about whatever my vivacious elementary school self was interested in.

In Omie’s small kitchen, we would make banana bread, jumble cookies, and applesauce. She would always drag a step stool over for me because my six-year-old height made it hard to be the certified mixer, official bowl cleaner, and a professional at eating all the leftover batter, simultaneously getting it all over my face. For lunch, we would have what I’d call “Dutch Cheese,” which was actually Gouda with the red wax still on, with Triscuits, apples and chunky peanut butter on Dutch ornate plates with blue designs on them. Before meals, we’d sing “The Lord is Good to Me,” a song that my entire family sings together when we have meals, even if Omie isn’t with us.

At night, she would let me watch Angelina Ballerina every weekend, give me a Klondike bar, and then prepare a bubble bath for me while reading Curious George, What Have You Done, Davy?, The Boy Who Held Back the Sea, and Spider. I loved playing with the bubbles, making bubble beards, and playing with bath toys, something I didn’t do at home. She’d then tuck me in and I’d fall asleep peacefully, with unexplainable joy, and worries absent.

At five in the morning, I would wake up and crawl into her bed. She would trace letters on my back and have me guess them, telling me stories about princesses named Caroline and her childhood in Holland. She let me watch Cartoon Network in the morning while she made breakfast: French toast sticks with sausage.

I would always dread leaving her condo, wanting to stay forever with Omie, loving all the special aspects of being at my grandmother’s. Feeling special, loved, and protected by these weekly traditions that nourished our relationship was the highlight of my week. Even now, the sentiment is the same: craving those sleepovers with the walks to the shopping center, making banana bread, eating Quakes on the patio, bubble baths while she reads Curious George. But, the reality is not the same.

Multiple times a week, my dad and I drive to Pickersgill Retirement Community, sign in at the front desk, and say hi to the staff, who are able to have more conversation than Omie. We walk to the fourth floor, to their highest level of care, to the hallway where call bells blare for minutes on end, to the hallway where most residents will end up living for the rest of their lives. Omie sits there, in the sea of wheelchairs, watching whatever nonsense they have on TV. The joy I would always have when going to visit my grandmother has since diminished, and I feel so much guilt for that. How in the world could I dread visiting my Omie, someone who is my family, someone who gave me so much joy every weekend of my elementary school life?

I don’t like visiting Omie anymore. The loving Omie who wouldn’t do harm to a bug, who would take a trash grabber stick on our walks to the shopping center, who taught me so much about kindness towards others has been overtaken by the aggression that comes with dementia; she’s become a difficult resident, someone who kicks, punches, and verbally abuses the nurses. She had broken seven bones in three years, due to her stubborn nature to get up on her own, but recently, she barely moves. Everything hurts. Talking to her is like speaking to a wall, and it hurts comparing a human to an inanimate object like that, but that’s reality. She is unable to have a conversation with us, and the little conversation she utters makes no sense. She can’t explain what she wants or needs and gets the past and present mixed up, but in moments of clarity, she’ll despairingly call out to God, asking for death. I attempt to tell her about my life, but a one-sided conversation is difficult, and I don’t know what to say. Lately our visits consist of us feeding her meals, because without assistance, she won’t eat at all. I keep visiting though, knowing the smile she’d give when seeing my dad and me is still there, but her body is too tired to let her show it.

Silence sometimes prevails over our emotions on the way home from visiting Omie. It encapsulates all the words that simmer under the surface, all the brokenness we yearn to fix. Other times, we face the truth upfront: she is dying. Seeing her this way brings an inexplicable heaviness, where I want the Omie from my childhood, I want her to get better, I don’t want to let go of the hope that somehow, miraculously, she will get better, that we will make banana bread again, walk to Graul’s together, have another conversation, but deep inside, I know she is gone.

“I don’t want to live a long life,” Dad will say in the car on the way home. What I used to yell at him for saying, what I used to misunderstand, actually makes sense after watching Omie suffer. His wish for an early death is not a desire for the end of his life, but an escape from the suffering that comes from living a long life. It derives from our wish to not see Omie suffer, our inability to do nothing but visit every day and tell her about the world outside her body that is trapping her in pain.

This is why it’s good that humans don’t have magic wands to make decisions or genies to grant wishes: the most difficult decisions will always be ambivalent and one may never find solace in what happened if they provoke action. Regardless, when it is natural, there is still guilt in both circumstances. Guilt swallows someone who wishes for the death of another, because how could you wish for someone to die, especially someone you love? But guilt consumes someone who wishes for them to stay, because they are struggling, and they don’t want them to die, and they feel selfish for wishing someone to stay despite their pain. It’s impossible to choose: knowing the person who has been a light for you is not in pain anymore, but accepting that the possibility for new memories is gone, that some of those moments were the last and that you will no longer have them, or holding on, praying that maybe they'll get better, but knowing they are in despair.

These are a few undeniable truths: I love my grandmother, I will always love her, but she is dying, slowly and painfully. True love towards someone means you wish the best for them, despite the pain it might bring you. I know the best for Omie is Heaven. Coming to terms with this seems impossible, but I know it’s true. I yearn to start focusing Omie’s memory on our weekend sleepovers, through banana bread recipes, through bags of Swedish Fish, through bird seed feeders hanging on trees, rather than her current pain. Seeing her struggle rips me apart. I want my grandmother to die. Physically letting go of her is hard, but the memories that will forever be etched in me are how she will live on. The love that she shared with me, my family, and everyone she encountered will persist. Omie’s physicality may be temporary and fleeting, but her disposition, personality, and character are the life-changing aspects that will permanently leave a positive mark on the world. Giving up the possibility of new memories in exchange for knowing Omie is at peace is worth it, because, despite not being on earth, she will never leave me. After all, I still have her banana bread recipe.