I was scouring my Confessions of a Purse Carrier Blogspot archives and realized, I have never written a piece solely about my grandmother, who I affectionately call Nana. Strange, right? I’ve written long birthday posts on social media and reflections when we’ve traveled together, but nothing on Confessions. My Nana is 96 (or 97) years old. I put the parenthesis because when my mom became her primary caregiver in 2015, she was able to obtain Nana’s birth certificate and discovered that it didn’t match the age Nana had always been told. But in true Nana fashion, she stood on business: “I’m staying the age I was told I was.” And baby, when you’ve made it this far, you deserve to pick your joys, including your age. I also want to dive into the historical treatment of Black women giving birth during that time, many didn’t even receive birth certificates because of the racism and classism baked into America’s systems. But that’s a whole essay for another day.
Quick backstory: My mom moved to be her primary caregiver in 2015. Nana was diagnosed with dementia. Over the years, my mom and her sisters gave what they could, time, money, energy to make sure Nana’s health, wellness, finances, and social life were cared for. Eventually, professional care became necessary, and Nana transitioned into assisted living. She’s lived in a few places and most recently set up shop at a new residence. My mom visits often, and I’ve had the privilege of tagging along a couple times. On the last visit, I started writing about the experience, and here we are. Watching my mom uproot her life to pour into her mother’s life has been both beautiful and heavy. A rewarding but weighty purse to carry.
Now, let me be honest: I don’t like Nana’s new place. She’s clean, well fed, her room spotless, she has “friends,” and she’s generally content, which is the priority. But taste-wise? Not my vibe. Every time I’m there I catch myself daydreaming about how I’d run a senior residence, what it would look like, how the residents would live, the activities they’d be doing, the whole vibe. But let’s be clear, am I ever actually going to open said imaginative senior residence? “Hell naw to the naw naw naw.” So, I keep my little imaginary improvements to myself and let my mom and her sisters go back and forth about whatever they got going on for their mama.
On this particular visit, and honestly every visit, when you walk in, most residents are in the common area. The TV is on, a handful are watching, others are asleep, others are somewhere in another galaxy far, far away from ghetto earth. Staff are around giving meds, helping with bathroom trips, or, in the case of one staffer, consistently snacking. Chips. Always chips.
I scanned the room and spotted Nana, regal as ever: tiny, hunched over, inspecting her nails. I walked up. She smiled. “It’s so good to see you,” she said. That line still hits, because I used to be terrified she’d forget me. Once, at her first residence, she spotted me and proudly yelled to her table, “That’s my granddaughter!” Cue waterworks. Since then, her recognition has wavered, but so has my fear. I don’t need her to remember me, I just want her happy. On this visit, she looked at me as “familiar” and, about an hour in, called me “Cyn-Cyn,” like always. My mom she knows instantly by name, by heart. Witnessing that recognition is a gift.
We sat in the common area. Nana launched into her usual loop: wanting her hair and nails done, asking about her sister (who passed away), asking about my dad (also gone), reminiscing about Pittsburgh, mentioning “the kids going back to school.” On repeat. The new stuff? Gossip. She had notes on her fellow residents: who she liked, who she didn’t, who talked too much, and who she was ready to fight. Some she simply referred to as “Negros,” cussing as she recounted their antics.
“Why are you cussing, Mommy?” my mom asked.
“Because I will beat her ass,” Nana said flatly. I chuckled. She never mentions the man I saw on our last visit, the one letting a fellow resident hug up on him and kiss him because she thought he was her brother. This time he was rocking Omega Psi Phi paraphernalia, which instantly clicked for me. No wonder he was smirking during all that kissing last time. Ahh, the Bruhz.
The activity coordinator came in with a movie suggestion. She played a trailer and asked if they wanted to watch. Folks hollered out, “Whaaaat she say?”—most were either half-asleep or just plain confused. The few who caught on watched the trailer and emphatically said nope. So she asked, “Well, do any of you have a movie suggestion?” From what I’ve observed, the boss resident of the group hollered, “My Fair Lady!” Immediately another groaned, “Again? That movie is too long!” She even tried to make a dramatic walker-exit until boss lady shut her down with, “Oh, sit down, where you even going?” And down she sat. So, yes, My Fair Lady, all 2 hours and 50 minutes of it, was the afternoon screening. Thirty minutes in, somebody yelled, “All they do is sing in here?” Yes, sis. Yes. But when I tell you, watching residents chant, “The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plane,” or tear up singing, “I Could Have Danced All Night,” was the sweetest thing I’ve seen in months.
Of course, mid-movie, my mom decided to scroll social media. Aretha Franklin’s Respect blasted from her phone, louder than the TV. Ma’am, read the room we are in full Rodgers & Hammerstein mode. Meanwhile, Nana started expressing how hungry she was, snacking is her favorite pastime. A staffer handed her some goodies, and later the activity coordinator gave her apple muffins from a group baking activity. My mom asked if she helped bake. “No! I told her I wasn’t doing that,” Nana declared. But she sure ate two muffins. I tried one they tasted exactly like the environment: endearing yet somber.
As the visit wrapped, Nana grew restless: “I want to put on my pajamas and lay down.” My mom, like clockwork: “Not before dinner.” Back and forth for an hour until finally, a kitchen staffer yelled, “First seating, dinner time to eat!” Why they gotta holler like that? Jarring every time.
And that’s Nana a regal, sharp-tongued, always ready for snacks beauty. Even in this season of life, she’s teaching me what resilience looks like, what love looks like, and yes, what shade looks like.
I’ll report back after the next visit.
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