As I kissed my Grandmother Ruth goodbye, I noticed two things: The Dunny I brought last Mother’s Day was on display next to her chair, and Grandma’s toenails were excessively overgrown. Oh, gross. I was shocked agents from Guinness hadn’t been by to authenticate some sort of world record. Unable to leave Grandma like that, I escorted her to the bedroom and sent Dad on a search for de-hoofing tools.
“I know they’re long, KK, but I can’t get to them anymore.”
Dad returned with a complete pedicure kit. The three of us looked at each other, and I felt certain Grandma was the only one amongst us with prior foot fancification experience [Don King-ism, thank you]. I sent Dad out of the room and apologized to Grandma, “I have never done this before. I don’t want to hurt you, but some of these nails are turned under and look ingrown, ok?”
With that, I surveyed the torture devices within the nail kit. I was only cutting the nails. That was it. Nothing else, none of the frou-frou stuff.
Laying back on her pillow, Grandma winced.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you ok?”
“Yes, honey. It’s not hurting me.”
Liar. I’d have to be more careful.
I slowly worked my way across each toe on each foot. Some of the trimmings flung themselves into my face as I snipped them. I can’t believe I am doing this. Gross. A dense layer of white clippings decorated the front of my black vest like fungal, calcified snowflakes. Oooooh, my god. I brushed myself off and caught eyes with Grandma. Humiliated and embarrassed, she apologized. I pulled the giant emory board from its plastic pouch. I’m going to file this mess down so she won’t cut herself with these sharp former-talons, and that’s it.
“Does that hurt? I am bad at this kind of stuff.”
She shook her head.
“Does it tickle or anything?”
“No, doesn’t tickle, honey.”
Twenty minutes later, Grandma had human toenails again. I could almost hear the Guinness guys getting back inside their cars. Ashy with nail dust, Ruth wiggled her toes.
“Thank you so much. I know how unpleasant that was.”
Sigh, I am going to wash her feet with a washcloth, and that is it.
“I hope this isn’t too cold. I have to clean your feet.”
“Alright. Thank you again.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Grandma.”
I blotted the pads of her toes.
“Oh, I really do appreciate this. It feels so nice.”
Good, I wasn’t killing her. I grabbed the mammoth bottle of lotion next to her pillow.
“I’m going to massage your feet a minute, ok?”
She leaned back and closed her eyes. I worked the lotion over her incredibly dehydrated feet and calves.
“That just feels wonderful.”
“I’m so glad to do it. All you have to do is ask for help.”
“You get used to it — the long toenails and, you know, the other things that happen when you get older.”
“You don’t have to. Dad is always here.”
“I hate to bother him,” she said as she struggled up. “I can’t find the controller for my bed. It is usually right here.”
I put the lotion on the shelf and raised her into a sitting position. Ruth grabbed my hand. “I know your father did not have a perfect life, and I want you to forgive him like I forgave his father. Your grandfather wanted to do things, to buy things for you all, but he couldn’t bring himself to…to communicate. He was so awful at that.”
I sat down next to her. There wasn’t anything left in the pedicure case for me to tackle her with next.
“I know, Grandma.”
“You were a handful, KK. You were not an easy child. I am still so proud of you, my sweet grand daughter. Look at you now. Just look at you.”
Look at what? What did she mean?
Grandma continued, “You don’t even know it yet.”
“Know what, Grandma?”
“You’re a good person. I love you so very much. I wanted you to know.”
We were totally having the conversation I wanted to have with her at the hospital. I couldn’t believe it. Suddenly, my face was coated in thick layers of tears — the variety that drop directly from your eyes, like rain, and without your even having realized them. I buried my head in her lap and bawled and told her I loved her, too. And…
“…I know Grandpa meant well. I know he wasn’t treated nicely, but everybody is fine.”
She patted my hair.
“I love you so much, KK. You know I love you, don’t you?”
“I do.” Lifting my head, I looked up at her sideways like I did when I was little. She smiled down at me and wiped my cheeks. I put my head back down on her lap while she continued stroking my hair, and we sat like that for a very long time. I couldn’t gauge it, but the light changed outside, I know.
She knows she’s old and that it’s time to quit looking at the world through bullshit-colored glasses, I guess. I’m so glad she flagged me down.
Next week, I’m driving back to Dad’s. Maybe this time, I’ll bring polish. I’m on a roll with this pedicure thing.
Perhaps, I should practice polishing my own toes while I’m at it, even.
It took my father’s approaching death to finally talk about some of the things we should have talked about years earlier. We were both stubborn. My wife had quietly pushed me towards this for a long time. I should have listened to her. Her emotional IQ is much higher than mine. Having learned, I hope, from this mistake, I am trying to be more open with my own kids. I had seen my nephew who is living with us isolating himself from his father. I had a long talk with him simply telling him how bad it was for me and that he might not want to take that path. My wife has done the same, and they are talking again.
Steve
Isn’t it strange how we want to politely not discuss these things with our loved ones until the most impolite time of all, when they’re dying?
I’m glad you guys had the fortitude to teach your nephew to take advantage of things before they’re rushed, panicked, and possibly too late!
I am glad he had the guts to listen and act. Not sure I would have been able to do so at his age.
Steve