two pink roses

Yesterday, I saw my grandmother for the first time in three months. In three months she has lost the feeling in her left arm, been in and out of the hospital, placed and removed from a nursing home, and lost her sight. In three months, she has endured the most amount of pain than shes experienced in her entire life. In the last three months she has come to the conclusion that her situation is no longer a blessing, a blessing to be alive, but a curse that puts her in excruciating pain. The last time I saw her, she sat in her recliner and recalled accounts of numerous doctors visits, in which she was told that her physical decline has no explanation. She told me about doctor's experiments with her medications, some failed and some successful, but never successful enough to take away her pain. She told me of sleepless nights and painful days. I knew this time would be even harder than listening to those stories three months ago.

I told myself the whole car ride there that I would not cry. I would not cry because this visit was about enjoying the time we have left together, before the inevitable comes. I told myself I would not cry because even though she is sick and in pain, she does not want to see me cry, she wants to hear about my life. I repeated this to myself over and over again. Yet the second I touched her hand, she began to cry. I touched her hand and she could not stop herself, "Oh, Arianna, I can't see you. I can't see you." I could hear in her voice the great distress this realization caused her. Of course she knew she could not see, but I do not think either of us realized what a privilege that was. My grandfather of course told her to "stop that nonsense." That's what crying is to my dad's side of the family, nonsense. The truth of the matter is whenever my grandfather, my nonno, looks at my grandmother, my nonna, he too wants to cry. Emotionally, he just can not take it for anyone to shed a tear. I held her hand, stroked her harm, and kissed her cheek, doing my best to have her feel my love.

My brother does not understand that my nonna can not see. I do not know that he will. There's pain in her face whenever she hears him laugh, cry, play, and talk. She may never be able to enjoy what those things look like before she goes. The loss of her sight has not only taken away what she can experience, but her independence. It was hard to watch her be fed like a baby, and this sight caused some confusion for my brother. "Why is nonna being fed like a baby? I want to be fed like a baby."

My nonno would instruct her to open her mouth, take two more bites, open her mouth, try to eat the rest, as she would shake her head like a stubborn child and refuse the peas and pasta. I can not begin to imagine what that would feel like. To be independent your entire life and then have the person whom you've loved, who's been your equal, treat you like a child, care for you like a child, and show great impatience when you can no longer do things yourself. My nonna has an unfortunate combination of stubbornness and fear. These two traits do not mix well together especially in the given situation. There is a refusal for help and assistance while simultaneously being deathly afraid of doing anything on her own. She knows inside she needs the help, but she struggles to ask for it or admit the need for it.

She finishes her dinner, and sways her head back and forth, eyes half closed as she attempts to listen and participate in the dinner conversation. My family is known for holding three conversations at once, all yelling over each other to make their point. The scenario for an outsider appears entertaining, but when you are an active participant, it is extremely difficult to be heard unless you are willing to interrupt and speak at a high volume. My grandfather, for the first time, was not actively participating in our family's version of a conversation. I think he saw me observing the spectacle and took notice of my distant gaze.

"You know how I grow roses out in the front?"
"Yeah."
"I tried growing roses out there, you see, by the orange tree, but it never grows."
"Oh, really?"
"Year after year, nothing and nothing. Then, she loses her sight and look."
"Look where?"
"See, over on the brick wall. She loses her sight, and then, pink roses. Just two."
"Where? I don't see them."
"Right there," he points hard in a straight line with his finger.
"Just two."

I glance over my family's heads, and there, right where my Nonno points his finger, there are two perfectly formed pink roses. I begin to cry. I look across the table at him, and he sees the pain, but joy in my tears. He looks at me, then my Nonna seated next to him and just smiles. He knows those to be a symbol of hope. I wipe my tears with my napkin before this moment is ruined by one of my family members taking note of my crying. Although I promised myself I would not cry, I accept this tears because they do not feel like tears of sadness. Two pink roses, hope begins.