Even after dementia had chewed holes in her sense of time and place, my grandmother was a whiz with veins.
Some time in her early 80’s as she was hospitalized for a broken wrist, she managed to get herself into both a staff area and nursing scrubs and start IV’s on multiple patients who she deemed in need. Later that evening, in a fit of rage, she convinced a security guard that she was the owner of the hospital and implemented some wide and sweeping procedural changes to get the ER in order.
I love this about her.
Of course, I also cringe at the darkness of dementia and wince at the vulnerability of the healthcare system in the 90’s where such things unfolded, but some of my genes sing with pride when I think of her tenacity.
My grandma Hazel was more Irish than anything, but also lots of everything, and matched with a man who was Hungarian through-and-through. This quarter of her mixed ancestry gave her a unique personality and scrappy nature. Scrappy enough to take on this lineage of my grandfather, who himself was kind and soft in every interaction I had with him, but came from stock that seethed cruelty. The Hungarian tongue is harsh. The enduring stories of his ancestors and their homeland are vicious.
I feel that in my blood too, if I hold still long enough, which is a very good reason not to.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Virtual Latte to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.