The Not Previously Discussed Benefits of Being a Robot and therefore not related to anyone

My mother went to Philadelphia this past week to visit her family. My grandma Bert, her mother, has alzheimers and is extremely out of it. Like, not recognize Mom out of it. Aunt Terri takes care of her, and a few times a year Mom goes up there to give Terri a break.

No one is my family is close to Grandma Bert, including, I suspect, my mother. But then, you should never pretend to understand what goes on between mothers and daughters. Grandma Bert used to travel to Cleveland to see us every Easter and sometimes Christmas. When we were little she would take us to see Disney films, and we would go Easter shopping at the West Side Market for dark spicy barley and blood sausages.

The summer I was fifteen, I stayed in Philly with her to go to summer math classes. I was a dirty hippy, and she hated me being there. I stayed in my Uncle John's room with all his German books, and she told him about it, and he freaked out that I might touch his stuff even though he'd been in Europe for years. Grandma told everyone I was stealing from her, that I had stolen her brother's Purple Heart. Later, when she was crazy and they were selling the house, they found it under the bathroom sink. My mom didn't tell me any of this till after the fact, but I knwe Grandma thought I was a thief, and I suspect much of her dislike came from me being fat and not pretty and weird.

The only part I really liked about Philly that summer were my hippie summer school friends drinking non-alcoholic beers on Saturdays and Polish church masses on Sundays.

So it comes to this week. I haven't spoken to my grandma, or even heard her voice, in ten years. She is a source of pain for my mom. She is crazy. She was crazy before she was crazy too. But I have a large amount of guilt for feeling this way. After all, she's my only living grandparent. She's my family's history. I would love to be able to visit my grandma and listen to her tell stories, I want family stories, and drink coffee with her and love her. But it's not that way, and now it's too late, but really it never could have been that way. I'm too sentimental, is all.

Point of this wool gathering is this. Yesterday my mom called on her cell. I picked up and said "Hi Mom."

"Hi Bubshi, this is Bonnie. How are you?" (Bubshi is mom's grandmother's nickname. I don't know if I'm spelling it right. Apparently the way I spell it is Japanese, but it's from some Polish word. I'm a bad descendant.)
"Mom, you called your daughter."
"I know, just go with it."
"Okay"
"Here Mom, here's Bubshi, she'll tell you it's okay to stay here." My grandma comes on the phone. Her voice is deep and raspy and childish.
"Bubshi?"
"Hi Bert. It's okay to stay with Bonnie tonight."
"I'm going to stay here tonight. I wanted to let you know."
"I know, it's okay Bert. It's better you stay with Bonnie."
"I can't hear you. Maybe Terri has better hearing..."
"I said, you should stay with Bonnie tonight. It's cold, you should stay there."
"I just wanted to tell you. It's late, and we're closer to the city."
"I know. I appreciate the call. Stay there. I love you."
"I'm just going to stay here."
"It's better if you stay there with Bonnie. It's better to stay there tonight."
Grandma passes the phone back to Mom.
"Hi Honey, how was your party?"
"There was champagne drinking out of measuring cups, so it was good. How's your day going?"
Poor Mom. She passes the phone back to Grandma.
"Here Mom, do you want to tell Bubshi you love her?"
"I love you Bubshi"
"I love you too Bert. Have a good night."

So there you go. Yesterday I played my great grandmother, so my grandmother who thought she was a teenager could have permission to stay in the city with her daughter, who she thinks is her other daughter. Do you think that's funny? Cause it's really fucking not. She's dying and I don't know her. I was only given a chance when I was an awkward child, and by the time I grew up enough to have poise, that chance was over. The little silver threads in her head are unraveling, and when my mother's generation dies as well, all that will be left of her in me is a fondness for Eastern European religious icons, memories of an amber rosary I took apart for the beads, and cravings for weird sausages whenever I hear Polka music. Oh, and the crazies.

Later I met up with Cat and Jere and her friend Todd, and sat at the bar talking about Vikings and writing and mating tactics for 5 hours, drinking heavily and desperately trying to not think about that conversation. I almost beat Jere at arm wrestling, but not quite. I'm not that strong. So I paid the tab, and it made me feel better. Useful.