My Mother’s Hands – J. Spence Reid, MD, Department of Orthpaedics and Rehabilitation
© Katherine Reid | Daughter, J. Spence Reid, MD, Department of Orthopaedics and Rehabilitation
My grandmother’s mind deteriorated gradually over six years, more rapidly during the final three. Her’s was a strange dementia: she could still read, even if her speech became more and more difficult to understand. She no longer recognized me as her granddaughter. On good days, she mistook me for my mother.
My grandmother’s hands deteriorated slowly over 20 years, her fingers bending themselves into arthritic zigzags that ensured her rings would never come off of their own accord. She found her gnarled joints hilarious and swore they didn’t hurt. She embarked on aging with a remarkable, humorous acceptance: poking fun at her arthritic limbs and shrinking frame, jovially forbidding me from continuing to grow taller.
Although never measuring above 5’3”, a height I surpassed by age 12 – this stubborn, opinionated, ambitious woman had very much intimidated me well into my teens. We routinely butted heads over mundane things like wearing the proper headgear in winter or neatly pinning my hair up rather than letting it cascade down my shoulders in what was, in her opinion, a wild-looking, unkempt manner.
As her dementia progressed and her ability to carry on a conversation dwindled, her once sharp edges became rounder and softer, her ability to joke quicker. It was my father who (surprisingly) suggested that I hold her hands instead of trying to chat. On our next visit, I looked into her tired, amber eyes and took her hands, feeling those knobby knuckles and surprising warmth. Her fingers wrapped around mine in an almost automatic response, as if we had done this many times.
I truly couldn’t have imagined us sitting and holding hands while I twisted up my face in silly ways to make her giggle. When I close my eyes, I can still feel her waxy, warm fingers curled around mine.
I struggle with regret that her dementia set in just as I was beginning to understand her complex sensibilities, born of out a ruthless commitment to organization and practicality. The older I get, the more I recognize our shared obsessive tendencies. I admire her innate ability to act rather than ruminate, a trait that does not come naturally to me.
The night before she died, her grip was so fierce I found it physically difficult to let go when it was time to leave. The following day, her grip became less strong, but it was still there. When I squeezed her hand, she lightly, but distinctly, squeezed back.
I fretted for months about how to say goodbye. As I sat by her bed for the last time, surrounded by her children, I realized that all I needed to do was show up, be present, and offer her my hands. There are times when love is palpable. A room full of it: unmistakable.