Tomorrow is my first day back at work (school) after summer break.
My phone rang about 30 minutes ago.
Me: Hello?
Gan: Brandy, this is Ganny. (She is still in denial that caller ID exists.) What are you going to be doing about 7:30 in the morning?
Me: Well Gan, I should be in the car, on my way to work.
Gan: Well do you think you could call me and wake me up?
Me: (surprised pause) Ganny, where are you headed?
Gan: I've gotta go to the doctor, at 9:45 and I'm afraid if I don't get up then, I won't be able to drink my coffee and get ready.
Me: (lovingly) Do you not have an alarm Ganny?
Gan: Well, I do, but I can't tell if I've got it on a.m. or p.m. I can't tell where that little light is on the little thing...
Me: (in submission to the cuteness) Yes, Gan. I will leave myself a note so I will remember to call you on my way to work...
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Episode #10 Getting the New Hearing Aids
Ganny has never worn hearing aids before, and though she has mentioned possibly getting them at some point in the future, and we have joked with her on occasion that she may need them, it has never been a serious topic of discussion. Last week however, she surprised me with the news she had purchased some.
This is the type of thing that worries me: what she does all day when I can't be with her and monitor her decisions. I don't mean to be condescending, but the reality is she just isn't as sharp as she used to be. I don't want her to get taken advantage of.
I didn't even know she was looking at hearing aids. "Well Ganny, how did you decide you needed hearing aids?" I asked, trying to find the catalyst of this decision. "They told me I did," she responded quickly. "Who?" I asked suspiciously. "The lady at the hearing aid place. They tested me and said it wasn't severe but that I needed them." That's what I didn't want to hear (pardon the sort-of pun). What could I say? "They cost me $2800.00. I'm just gonna pay 'em out." Then I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but knew that I shouldn't. "Gan, I wish that you would've talked to me before you did that," I said not trying to sound angry. "Well they said I had to have 'em," she countered. I wanted desperately to say "OF COURSE THEY TOLD YOU THAT. THEY SELL HEARING AIDS." But one must resist the impulse to yell at Ganny, even when she deserves it. As previously mentioned, this will result in a crying old lady.
I decided to go with her when she was scheduled to pick them up and get instructions on how to use them. I anticipated some intricate directions and thought it would be beneficial for me to be there and write some things down.
When we arrived everyone seemed nice enough. They remembered Ganny (she's hard to forget) and seemed to be on the up and up. A young girl, professionally dressed, took us back to a small office and began to explain the logistics of everyday use: how to change the batteries, where to get the batteries, what to do with them at night, etc. I took notes. Ganny seemed to digest the information fairly well with only minimal interruption and questions. She watched with intrigue as the woman modeled how to remove the batteries. She seized the device with gusto when it was her turn to try.
There came a point at which the hearing aid specialist showed Ganny how to put on the hearing aids and perform some tests to ensure they were programmed for her specific needs. As the woman retrieved some supplies from the other room, Ganny looked at me with a giddy smile and clapped her hands. I couldn't help but smile back at her. "Are you excited Gan?"
"Oh yes!" she chirped. Isn't she cute, I thought.
Suddenly, it struck me how our roles had become the exact mirror reflection of what they used to be. Twenty years ago, Gan was sitting with me at the orthodontist while I clapped excitedly about getting a new color of rubber bands on my braces or something. She was the caretaker, learning the instructions along with me in case I needed help. She would have been the one thinking how cute I was, and realizing the significance of these small moments together while I was just excited about my new stuff.
I have been told by those that have gone through the cycle before me that this is how life works. Your parents and grandparents raise you and then you, in turn, take care of them much later when they slowly lose the ability to care for themselves. I have realized this before now, but it is these moments, when the roles are so precisely reversed, that I lose my breath for a second or two because I'm scared of being a grown-up and there's nothing I can do about it, because I'm sad to watch this authority figure who taught me so much slowly regress, and because I'm glad that at least I can acknowledge these small moments now, while they're happening, and appreciate her as much as I can in the limited amount of time we have left.
This is the type of thing that worries me: what she does all day when I can't be with her and monitor her decisions. I don't mean to be condescending, but the reality is she just isn't as sharp as she used to be. I don't want her to get taken advantage of.
I didn't even know she was looking at hearing aids. "Well Ganny, how did you decide you needed hearing aids?" I asked, trying to find the catalyst of this decision. "They told me I did," she responded quickly. "Who?" I asked suspiciously. "The lady at the hearing aid place. They tested me and said it wasn't severe but that I needed them." That's what I didn't want to hear (pardon the sort-of pun). What could I say? "They cost me $2800.00. I'm just gonna pay 'em out." Then I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but knew that I shouldn't. "Gan, I wish that you would've talked to me before you did that," I said not trying to sound angry. "Well they said I had to have 'em," she countered. I wanted desperately to say "OF COURSE THEY TOLD YOU THAT. THEY SELL HEARING AIDS." But one must resist the impulse to yell at Ganny, even when she deserves it. As previously mentioned, this will result in a crying old lady.
I decided to go with her when she was scheduled to pick them up and get instructions on how to use them. I anticipated some intricate directions and thought it would be beneficial for me to be there and write some things down.
When we arrived everyone seemed nice enough. They remembered Ganny (she's hard to forget) and seemed to be on the up and up. A young girl, professionally dressed, took us back to a small office and began to explain the logistics of everyday use: how to change the batteries, where to get the batteries, what to do with them at night, etc. I took notes. Ganny seemed to digest the information fairly well with only minimal interruption and questions. She watched with intrigue as the woman modeled how to remove the batteries. She seized the device with gusto when it was her turn to try.
There came a point at which the hearing aid specialist showed Ganny how to put on the hearing aids and perform some tests to ensure they were programmed for her specific needs. As the woman retrieved some supplies from the other room, Ganny looked at me with a giddy smile and clapped her hands. I couldn't help but smile back at her. "Are you excited Gan?"
"Oh yes!" she chirped. Isn't she cute, I thought.
Suddenly, it struck me how our roles had become the exact mirror reflection of what they used to be. Twenty years ago, Gan was sitting with me at the orthodontist while I clapped excitedly about getting a new color of rubber bands on my braces or something. She was the caretaker, learning the instructions along with me in case I needed help. She would have been the one thinking how cute I was, and realizing the significance of these small moments together while I was just excited about my new stuff.
I have been told by those that have gone through the cycle before me that this is how life works. Your parents and grandparents raise you and then you, in turn, take care of them much later when they slowly lose the ability to care for themselves. I have realized this before now, but it is these moments, when the roles are so precisely reversed, that I lose my breath for a second or two because I'm scared of being a grown-up and there's nothing I can do about it, because I'm sad to watch this authority figure who taught me so much slowly regress, and because I'm glad that at least I can acknowledge these small moments now, while they're happening, and appreciate her as much as I can in the limited amount of time we have left.
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