Leia Heals Grandma

Grandma is in a lot of pain. You can tell from the way she is holding herself. Her ellbows are pressed into her tiny porcelain body, subtly shaking. She is sitting in her favorite recliner, her tense hands interlocking. Her face is made out of porcelain too, like a mask that says “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.” Everyone is politely pretending they aren’t worried. 

I know from the way that my mom is pacing in the hallway that this is serious. Grandma had surgery on her spine. Two vertabrae fused. The hospital sent her home with pain medication, which she refuses to take. My mom is a doctor, used to telling patients to take their medicine. She isn’t used to telling her own mother, who is stubborn like a very polite mule. Her pacing tells me she has exhausted her options. She has tried authority, and pleading, and blackmail. They are at a standstill. 

I sit at the foot of grandma’s chair, trying lightly to make conversation. She smiles her porcelain smile at me. I have always been her favorite grandchild. She has always been my favorite grandparent. We are bonded, despite the fact that we live on different continents. We are alike, somehow. Even now she is happy to see me. 

My eyes trace the elegant oriental rug I am sitting on. The tassels are brushed into perfect parallel lines, a microcosm of the spotless perfection of her apartment. Nobody teaches grandma about control. Nobody. I somehow admire her stubborness, but at the same time I feel like crying, seeing her in so much pain. I find myself wishing that Julian was here. If Julian was here he would know what to do. He would do something.

I look into grandma’s blue eyes. Something in me takes over. Julian isn’t here. I am here. I look around the room calmly, assessing the situation. There is too many people here, too many energies. So I tell my mom to go to the bakery. Buying pastries is what Germans do in a crisis. I tell my brother to go with her. I move closer to grandma, close enough to touch her. She doesn’t look up. Her focus is on her pain, directed inwards.

Slowly I tune all of my attention to her. I notice all the parts of me that are scared to take her in and politely ask them to step aside. To let me do what I have to do. I open my heart to her. I feel her pain, echoed in my body. I feel what it’s like to be old and made out of porcelain. I open myself to her need. Tears are streaming down my face as I touch her feet to the ground. 

Time passes as we sit. Time passes until I hear my family return. I quickly dry my tears. The pain killers. Right. I was going to intervene on that. I look at grandma, taking her in. I feel the layers of fear pertaining to the meds. They make her stomach feel bad. It triggers a previous trauma from a time when she was battling stomach cancer. She won the battle, but her bodies remembers the danger. Worldlessly I communicate to the part that the danger is over and that the meds are safe. Then I vanish to the bathroom just as my mom enters the room with cake.

Carefully I sink to the bathroom floor. I cry soundlessly and let my body shake violently. Then I splash my face with water. I put on my best smile and rejoin the others around the coffee table. Next to grandmas cake plate is a half empty glass of water and the box of individually packaged pills. Two are missing. My mom nods, and gives me a satisfied smile. “Take a piece of cake Leia”, she says. “Nothing a piece of cake can’t fix.”