Tucking In Grandma

          My grandma and my uncle Gordon live in a senior center nearby, and I go visit every Sunday night. Most nights I’m there, Uncle Gordon asks if I can get Grandma ready for bed. She always says that I’m probably much too tired and shouldn’t have to stay and help her. I always say I don’t mind, that I’d be happy to help. Then I help pull her out of her chair, set her hands on her walker, and guide her as she shuffles through the bedroom and into the bathroom.
          The first time Uncle Gordon asked if I would get Grandma ready, I definitely minded. I had never helped anyone get ready for bed. Or at least, no one older than five. I frantically called my mom for instructions, then tried to stay calm and do my best. It didn’t help that Grandma was sick and I had to change all her clothes. I helped her clean up and get into her silky red pajamas. I put her black wig on the mannequin head on her dresser. Then she sat on her walker and handed me her teeth. Dentures are plastic and slippery, and I nearly dropped them. But I managed to brush them in warm water and Crest and hand them back to her all minty fresh. And all the while Grandma encouraged and complimented me like I’d been doing this my whole life. That’s just who Grandma is.
          When we were done with her teeth, I helped her over to her bed. We sat on the edge, and I held her hand while I said a prayer out loud that she would feel better and would be able to sleep through the night. Then I pulled the blankets back, tucked her into bed, and kissed her goodnight. It was probably the kindest thing I’ve been able to do for my grandma, and I wanted to go home and cry.
          Helping Grandma get ready for bed has become fairly routine now. Every Sunday night, Gordon and I sing a few hymns together while I play them badly and Grandma smiles like it’s the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard. I don’t know if she can really hear any of it. Then Gordon says, “After this song, will you get Mom ready for bed?” So we play one more hymn, and then Grandma and I slowly make our way to the bathroom.
          Now, as I help her get ready for bed, we talk. I tell her about the car I just bought, she asks about gas mileage. I tell her about the guys I just went out with; she asks which one I like best. She asks about work. We talk about Grandpa. She tells me I’m amazing, and I tell her I got it from her.
          She always tells me I’m amazing. And when I help her, I begin to believe she might just be right—and that I may have inherited more from her than I’d thought.
-Lori