Content note: Contains mentions of self-harm.
My nonna has always been the first person I turn to on a bad day. Things turn around when I catch sight of her smile, when she holds my hand and asks me what is wrong. Her presence has long been medicine for my soul.
She’s turning 93 in December this year. She has dementia, and now it’s a good day if she can remember my name. A great day is when she asks, “What’s wrong with your leg?” because she’s lucid enough to notice details such as the abnormality of my gait. Sometimes her hands tremble and I jokingly tell her we’re the same, though she shakes due to her age and I spasm due to cerebral palsy.
Jerky limbs are not our only similarity. As Nonna aged, walking became more difficult for her. She became unsteady on her feet, reaching for a wall or a person, anything she could for support. It was difficult to convince her to use a walker; she was reluctant to relinquish her independence.
We told her that we loved and cared about her and didn’t want her to fall over. We wanted her to be safe and using a walking frame would help ensure that. We encouraged her to focus not on what she would be losing with the walker, but the freedom she would gain. Eventually, she agreed.
As I age my physicality is also changing. I’m ambulant but walking any further than the café down the road causes me pain and fatigue. When a friend suggested I use a wheelchair, I baulked at the idea, as did my family. My friend cared about me and wanted me to be safe and using a wheelchair would help ensure that.
I have a disability and I might be young, but I deserve accommodations and support, just as Nonna does. I asked myself what she would tell me: Do what makes you happy. So, I did. Nonna’s grace is there when mine is not, which makes her impending death even harder to bear.
Nonna’s grace is there when mine is not
When we first moved Nonna into a nursing home, COVID restrictions meant it was difficult to visit. She could have one visitor every 24 hours, and on the day after the move, that visitor wasn’t me. Embarrassingly, I burst into tears at the reception desk.
The receptionist is lovely. She advises me to take video and audio recordings of Nonna whenever I could. That way, I could watch or listen to her even when she wasn’t around. I take that advice even further. I already had an extensive collection of photos, but I started bringing a notebook whenever I visited to capture Nonna’s words.
One of the moments I recorded has become a compass when I can’t find my way through an emotional storm. I was helping her out of the car, offering her both of my arms to clasp as she stood up. It was a warm day, and I was wearing a T-shirt, my forearms exposed. Nonna looked at them, her gaze lingering on the ladder of thin, faded scars, and then directly into my eyes.
“I’m glad you don’t do that anymore.”
I beamed at her, promised that I didn’t. I haven’t always kept that promise because mental illness doesn’t care about my promises or my best intentions. But I’ve tried, and I’ve kept it more often than not, the urge to self-destruct slowly dispelled by the steadiness of her love.
She laughs and says, “I love you, bella mia.” When I feel like no one else could or would, she does
Over the past few months, I’ve made playlists of her favourite songs – songs that remind me of her. Or songs that make me feel loved, which is the same thing. I have a sticky note on my desk prompting me to consider, “What would Nonna want?” That sticky note has pulled me out of many anxious spirals.
As per the receptionist’s suggestion, I’ve taken lots of audio and video of Nonna, too. My favourite is less than 10 seconds long. In it, she laughs and says, “I love you, bella mia.” I love you, my beautiful. When I feel like no one else could or would, she does.
I’ve never said it out loud, but this collection of Nonna is my way of preparing for her passing. I’m amassing as much of her goodness as I can because I’m not ready to face a world without her in it. Where is my home, if not with her? I want her to stay, but most of all I don’t want her to suffer. Nonna has given me so much. The greatest gift I can offer in return is to honour her by living as well as she has always done.
