Gentle grandma
My dad said it would’ve just been sad to see her the way she was in the hospital. I don’t disagree, but I also know it would’ve only been mildly self-serving because she had advanced dementia. Even when I’d go to see her earlier, she wasn’t able to remember me, or if she did, she wasn’t talking. But sometimes, she would still sing or hum along to songs that she liked.
My grandma used to be in choirs and she played the piano. She always pestered me to teach me and said I have the perfect fingers for it. As a child, I stupidly refused because I was afraid of my grandfather and didn’t want to commit to spending time around him. Unsurprisingly, when he passed around 10 years ago, I felt nothing. If anything, I was maybe a little relieved I could finally spend time with my grandma without the pressure of being asked if I've become a doctor. But I was already living abroad by then, and that time was limited. It became even more limited once her dementia was diagnosed and accelerated not long after his passing. So my chance to learn the piano from her was gone.
But that’s not all there’s left. My grandma was called “happiness” in Greek, which is Eftihia. Everyone called her Houla, the shortest version of the cutified Eftihoula. It was one of those cases where it was fully appropriate and not ironic at all. She really was always content. Not joyful in a hyper manner, but she truly seemed like she never had a bad mood. Even when my grandpa would say something rude or annoying, she would very rarely get remotely angry. I can’t ever know if she internalised things. My dad always said she’s like a gentle sheep, not meant in a demeaning way of course.
Although she didn’t teach me how to play the piano, I remember her teaching me to tie my shoes in a way that made more sense for me. Although she wasn’t the best cook except for soups for some reason, I remember that she taught me how to make cheese fondue from scratch. Until now, it remains a Christmas tradition for me, even though I can’t recall if we only did that during the holidays.
My grandma had very soft and velvety earlobes. Don’t ask me why that’s relevant, but it is. She also had the most incredibly shiny pure silver hair. She told me that when she was younger, she used a special purple product from Schwarzkopf, but it was sadly discontinued. At the time, I wanted to be a hairdresser, so this was vital information. By the way, she also learnt many languages, including German, until very late in her life. She was generally very into learning new things non-stop. Among the many cool things she did for her age, my favourite is that she went swimming in the ocean in winter.
As you can probably imagine, this was a grandma with a very comforting smell. I still remember it. I also remember her favourite hand soap, which was green apple. I loved it so much that I’d wash my hands more than I normally would. To this day, I buy green apple scented soaps or shampoos if I can find them.
What I’d really like to find, though, is this seemingly perpetually content feeling that she always carried, as well as her motivation to constantly learn. I’d say the latter is something I carry in me, but it’s not always in the driver’s seat. What we for sure share deeply is our passion for music. There’s legitimate proof that music is much more strongly remembered by people with dementia; they literally light up. So, I had made playlists of her favourite songs and sent them to my dad so she could listen.
When my dad called me with the news, we both cried. He said he hadn't cried before that. He said, he hopes I will also be joyful and positive like my grandma was. I can still hear it. I can’t promise that, but I have a good feeling I will at least inherit her incredible silver hair. Nevertheless, I will always be grateful for our shared love for cheese and music, two very core things in my life. I hope she can still hear or feel her favourite music wherever she is. I’m genuinely glad she is resting now, even though we didn’t get to do everything I wished we had done together.
