Game on, Grandma

During the cursed days of 2020 and most of 2021, I went to live with my grandmother in a remote town located in central Vermont called Pomfret. We established a mutually beneficial relationship: in exchange for a finished basement to live in while a vaccine was being developed, I helped her out with basic tasks like taking out the trash, and troubleshooting simple computer problems. When she’d accidentally zoom the screen up to 125% or lose the sound on her speakers, she’d yell out “HELP.” I’d stride up the stairs like a hero, and after fixing her problem in less than 30 seconds, she’d say “Oh my, you’re a genius!” And I’d shrug it off with a chuckle, but quietly think “hmmm… maybe I am…” 

My grandmother, Ann Raynolds (née Ann Ellis), is where I trace my competitive streak. She inherited hers from my great grandfather, George Ellis Adams who succumbed to polio (covid before covid) in his 40’s. The rest of my family is disappointingly blasé about competition, but when my grandmother and I find ourselves locked in a duel of backgammon or gin rummy, you’d think there were some stakes well beyond a crudely drawn star next to your name on the scoresheet. But it’s absurdly fun to play parlor games with her, and she’s amused by my gamesmanship and banter. Ahead of the game, I’ll say things like “Oh you’re goin’ down grandma!” If she’s on a lucky streak, I’ll act indignant “Oh you gotta be freaking kidding me!” And when I lose, I act bereft in a deadpan fashion, “Excuse me grandma while I retire to the basement and cry myself to sleep.” And she just laughs with delight.

Beyond a penchant for gaming, she’s been obsessed with politics from a young age, ever since she got out in the world after High School and witnessed segregation firsthand. She was arrested in Chicago during the civil rights movement and spent the night in jail. She remains a Bernie Sanders fan and still tries to make it to see him when he regularly stumps around the green mountain state. She’s actively involved in healthcare and zoning committees, voluntarily Zooming in every week.   

In the summer of 2019, during the Trump presidency, she brought me to a local ordinance meeting in White River Junction. The point of voting on the ordinance would limit ICE’s ability to operate locally, as they profiled people of color, detained them, and generally did the shitty things ICE does. The meeting lasted seven and a half grueling hours. It was like something out of Parks and Recreation, though completely sinister with nary a dash of humor. Obviously the Trumpistans were the scariest in the room: Unhinged, frightened, (likely armed) humorless boomers who were freaked out by all their new queer neighbors of color. But the liberals, reasonable to a fault, compounding their opposition to the MAGAts, were also  prone to some nasty infighting. Meanwhile most of the councilmen seemed underinformed, and frankly…a bit daft about what they were even voting on. 

And there I was, counting down the time until it was over. But my grandmother was  gripped to her chair, and watched all of this like it was the Breaking Bad series finale. She usually went to bed around 9, and when the clock had inched to midnight, I was stunned she still had any energy left in the tank. The meeting adjourned after discourse had been sufficiently buried in the muck. Not only did the ordinance fail to pass, I remember a college-aged black woman calling a young, black, male, city council member an “Uncle Tom”,  and saying “your ancestors would be ashamed of you.” As we drove back to my grandmother’s house at 12:37,  I was relieved, thinking I’ll never go to one of these again. That’s when she said  “wasn’t that exciting?”

She’s been driving regularly recently. The stereotype tends to be: “old people”, specifically “little old ladies”, are slow drivers. But when it comes to my grandmother, this stereotype couldn’t be any further from the truth. When she insists on driving, I take a deep breath, reflect on how lucky I’ve been in life, say “Okay grandma”, and proceed to hold onto the handle above the passenger door as we barrel down the dirt roads of Vermont’s countryside. I’ve learned the technical term for the handle attached to the roof is the “Jesus handle” because you hold onto it, thinking “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, I’M GOING TO DIE.” Last summer, she received a speeding ticket for going 45 in a 25 down Quechee’s narrow Main Street. Whenever she drives on the dirt-paved country roads, she speeds by pedestrians, leaving but a handful of inches separating her Subaru from clipping someone who, up until encountering my grandmother, believed they were about to engage in a relaxing stroll, and not a near death experience. 

She isn’t driving anymore. Recently, as she went to retrieve her mail from the post office, she broke her arm while attempting to turn the steering wheel. Not merely relegated to a freak accident/isolated incident, the break revealed the bone density of her arm was symptomatic of a deeper problem. 

She’s 94 years old and she’s beat cancer three times, breast cancer twice, ovarian cancer once. And as of a couple weeks ago, I will root for her to beat it a fourth time as she’s been diagnosed with lung cancer (she hasn’t smoked a cigarette since 1951). She’s at home right now, and she’s in good spirits, but the prognosis isn’t great. While the timeframe isn’t reliable, in a recent visit with her, she told me she’s prepared to die within the next six months. And while the idea of having less than six months left crushes me, she couldn’t be more at peace about it. She speaks of death as not only a part of life, but a crucial part of life. She’s outlived two husbands (including my grandfather) and she’s even buried her youngest daughter- my aunt, who died at 52 after her own battle with breast cancer. Neither my grandfather or aunt were accepting of death, even after they both knew their cancers metastasized beyond life-saving treatment options. Even my father (her son), admitted he is “scared shitless” of death, and would far prefer to die in a swift accident than have to face a visible timeline of his own mortality. My grandmother dismissed his fears, “there’s no sense in worrying about that (death).” Her flippance in the face of death, is something I’ve admired deeply: Yes you’re going to die. So what are you gonna do about it? 

 The depth of gratitude I have is unending to be blessed with, not only the grandmother I did, but the breadth of time I’ve had with her. I’m 38 years old, and she’s known me for all of them. She’s seen me through my youth, when I was a bit of a ne’er do well, and she’s seen me come out the other side, her father’s son through and through, devoted to the cause of keeping the family close. I love her and my heart is with her as I write this. Regardless of what remains out of my control and the collective’s, I will cherish the remaining time she is here with us, whether it be weeks, months or, cross my fingers, years. Maybe even during this blessed time, I’ll bust out the backgammon board, and we can play one more time.