When people live together for many years, they are connected by something more than just love. And for this more, they are ready to fight to the last and believe in the best, even if hope is almost gone. My grandparents taught me this.
“Sixty years married? That’s impossible. They counted wrong, ”grandfather looks at the numbers on the cake and is sincerely perplexed. I also look at these icons and do not fully understand how this can be. Sixty years. Diamond wedding. For me, this incredible anniversary is a cause for pride and tears.
But tears are good, bright. Caused by the fact that grandparents managed to carry feelings through so many years. The fact that it was not found in the lives of people and circumstances that could separate them. The fact that each of them continues to invest their soul in these relationships.
Grandfather, despite the medicine, is bad. He is rapidly developing Alzheimer’s disease. An outstanding designer — a brilliant mathematical mind, logic — the day before he sat and calculated with my mother, his eldest daughter, in a column, how old he is. I subtracted 2020 from 1932 in order to sincerely be amazed at the figure received. And to forget it in a few minutes …
Grandfather became cunning and resourceful. He answers questions in such a way that an outsider will not suspect anything, but we notice everything.
I think the worst thing that can happen to a person is the loss of personality. You can be relatively healthy, your body can function quite tolerably, and your heart can beat, but where are you in all this?
Grandfather, of course, there are gaps. He still recognizes (albeit with varying degrees of success) family members. And if you talk, you can remember stories from the past. But the overall picture is depressing and heavy. The hardest thing, of course, is my grandmother.
I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose every day, bit by bit, cell by cell, the person with whom I lived for sixty years. “It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him,” my grandmother howls softly, while no one is around. Then he wipes away his tears, sighs, shakes his head and goes to the kitchen: “Volodya, wash your hands!”
Grandma will pull grandfather to her last breath. Will pull them both. He will sit behind the wheel and go anywhere — the main thing is that together
This under-holiday, which happened at the dacha in the midst of a pandemic, was, of course, more for her. There was no noisy feast in the family circle — with daughters, sons-in-law, grandchildren. Mom and I happened to be in masks, gloves, doused from head to toe with a sanitizer.
A festive dinner — ours in the summer kitchen, them with my grandfather — on the veranda in the house. It’s good that it didn’t rain and everyone managed to eat the cake together, on the street, sitting on opposite benches one and a half meters from each other. But nothing. Better that way than nothing.
Grandma is eighty-four. She worked all her life at the Research Institute. She has sports ranks in swimming and skiing, she still drives a car. He scribbles me WhatsApp messages, transfers money through online banking and gives me stylish jewelry.
Liliana Lungina, an outstanding translator, once said that grief is the absence of desire. Grandma is definitely not in danger. Moreover, she always blows out the candles on the festive cake the first time. I want to be like her, but I’m not sure if I can do it.
Grandma will pull grandfather to her last breath. Will pull them both. He will sit behind the wheel and go for food, medicine, at least where — the main thing is that they stay together. She now has only one dream — to leave like this, together. One day, one hour, one minute.
I only pray that he does not forget her, his permanent fighting girlfriend. Your Walusha. Better even thanks to modern drugs is unlikely to be. I would like to believe that it will not get worse, thanks to a feeling that has long been more than just love.