A Story About My Grandmother
The Strength of One of The Women Who Built Me
My grandmother is the strongest woman I know. I didn’t find out her real name until I was 10. She is my Algonquin DNA, though she still proudly calls herself an Indian.
I have just freshly dyed my hair a vibrant red. This is something my nan did hundreds of times, often leaning back over a kitchen sink. I would never describe her as vain. Not any more so than most women of her generation, anyway. There is just something about red box dye that makes us as women feel innately more powerful. I will look like her at my wedding.
As she grew older, she had to be convinced to let her hair come out grey. This decision still makes me sad. Her short, fiery locks were always to me a symbol of rebellion and confidence I could look up to. It’s a look that demands attention. While I think women should be allowed to age without this expectation of maintaining a mythical standard of beauty, I know she wasn’t truly done being a cherry bomb. This was the first of many times I would come to notice that her body is not her own.
After that would be the stroke that came during her valve replacement surgery. This woman, so ordinarily full of colour, now lay before us, bedridden, and completely blue. As a child, I remember her physical therapy for regaining strength in her hands. I couldn’t understand why she was getting frustrated to tears using playdough. Her signatures on our birthday cards haven’t been the same since, but she has never stopped writing them. I intend to get one of her shaky ‘‘xoxo’’s tattooed to my hand, so she can write with me forever, and I remember to never take that ability for granted.
Later, it would be the myriad of doctors she would have to continue to see to keep her body functioning. Even before her stroke, my nanny had lived with a rare and complex combination of autoimmune conditions. My father recalls the first time he saw her cry, when the doctor called to tell her she had lupus. She was only 31, and it just got more complicated from there. It is hard enough to be taken seriously by a doctor as a woman. She needs to see a different specialist for every body part and system that she has. I attended one of these appointments with her recently. We had to drive an hour away, and spend another hour in the waiting room, exposing her body to a host of potentially life-threatening germs in the height of cold and flu season. As none of her specialists ever consult with one another on her very special case, he spoke to her for fewer than ten minutes before sending her home because he lacked any helpful information or advice regarding her conditions.
She is a smart woman. I think she just hopes to go soon. I hope she at least gets that on her terms. She should be enjoying the years she has left, free of the shame that she has already carried her whole life as a larger-framed woman.
Though throughout my life she has just continued to shrink, she still has big ‘ole clompers (I had to be funny because I was starting to cry). Whenever I find myself shoe shopping, another inherited guilty pleasure, I admire that she has given me my sturdy foundation, both literally and figuratively. I have always been made to feel ashamed of my ‘‘masculine’’ broad shoulders and wide feet, but I got them from the most womanly woman I’ve ever known.
♡ Hal
I love you forever, Nanny. We miss you so much already 🤍. You were so strong. Dad said he will hold our baby for you.