onecheapdate (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onecheapdate) wrote2019-01-25 06:20 pm
onecheapdate) wrote2019-01-25 06:20 pm
LJ IDOL - WEEK 13 - Eat Every Sandwich
LJ IDOL: WEEK 13
PROMPT: Eat Every Sandwich
Well, last week gave me an opportunity to write something about my grandma. Ironically, this week's prompt was perfect for sharing a bit about my grandpa, albeit this grandparent is on the other side of the family. Thank you in advance for reading!
“A BLT and the usual.” The familiar waitress sets our plates down with a glass bottle of ketchup and smiles. I politely smile back and nod, then look down at my sandwich. It’s an extremely underwhelming BLT with a few soggy fries on the side. Internally, I sigh.
I’m not particularly fond of this cafe. If it were up to me, I’d have stopped coming here two years ago when they switched owners and revamped the menu. But, my grandfather loves it and he’s a creature of habit. He’s also a sucker for a discount and they’ve been taking 10% off the top of his bill ever since he helped them meet their building code requirements. They greet him warmly when he arrives and treat him like a VIP customer. He loves that. Most people in town run the other way when they see him coming. He’s the zoning officer; a stickler for the rules with too much time on his hands. He’s your typical grumpy, nosy old man who grew up here and resists change. He’s not afraid to voice his complaints and he was a variety of strict, self-imposed dietary restrictions due to a family history of heart disease. So, every other week, we meet here for lunch, where the owner knows him by name and the waitresses humor his neediness.
Ray Roveccio is not for everyone. He can be a down right pain in the butt. But, he’s my grandpa and he’s always been very good at that particular job. I love him very much, though I can easily recognize why others outside of the family may find him difficult to deal with. This cafe, however? Not my favorite. They’re cheap with the meat and the lettuce is always just a bit wilted and thin. The tomatoes are always tasteless, translucent and pale. The bread is tough and hard, and has that rough kind of rind that cuts up the roof of your mouth. I suck it up though because the quality of the meal is not what is important in this particular arrangement.
Whenever we sit down, always at the four person table by the front windows, the waitress immediately makes her way over with two glasses of unsweetened iced tea at the ready. I look over the menu and wonder for the umpteenth time if I’ve missed some hidden gem. My grandpa doesn’t need to order - the waitress already knows what he wants: a turkey burger with no cheese, lettuce, tomato, onions and a side salad with extra olives. This time, I’m going with the BLT. I’ve had it before so I already know what to expect.
We go through all of our usual topics of discussion - my work, his town job, how the family is doing, what movies we’ve seen recently. It’s a comfortable rhythm as we’ve been doing this for awhile now. The topics naturally shift. He takes a sip of his unsweetened ice tea and then clears his throat.
“Cleared all the pre-testing. Looks like I’ve got that surgery coming up next week.”
“I knew you would,” I answer. “Are you excited?” I choose my words carefully, trying to maintain the idea that this is going to be a positive event.
“I don’t like surgery,” he replies, simply. “I’m not good at that kind of stuff. Your grandma is the tough one, not me.”
He’s right, of course. He’s a big baby when it comes to the tiniest of ailments. My grandma, on the other hand, spent two weeks in the hospital over the summer due to a perforated appendix that was left untreated. When the doctor asked her why she’d waited so long to be seen and suffered with such excruciating pain she insisted that it ‘wasn’t that bad.’
“No one likes surgery,” I say, picking at my underwhelming sandwich, “but this one is going to improve your quality of life so much. I think you’ll be really happy you decided to do it.”
In a week, my grandpa is having a double knee replacement. He’s constantly in pain when he walks, if you can even call the strange crouched shuffling that he does ‘walking’. He’s still capable of being active, young enough to get a good number of years out of the replacement knees and healthy in all other aspects. The doctor says he’s a fantastic candidate and he won’t even know himself once he’s all healed.
I’m hopeful, but worried. I agree that this has the potential to be wonderful for him, but I’m a card carrying member of the ‘I must research this on the internet’ generation and so I know that a double knee replacement is no joke. It’s incredibly painful and you have to work very hard. Most people don’t consider themselves completely healed until at least a year and a half post-op. It’s a long, uphill battle and I’m not quite sure my grandpa understands the scope and length of the recovery.
“I hope so,” he says, absentmindedly rubbing at his knee. “I guess there’s no turning back now, anyway.”
***
My grandpa has his surgery at the end of October. The procedure is a success and the doctors are extremely pleased with the placement of the new hardware. There are no complications and no hang ups. He’s moved into the general recovery ward where he will stay for about a week for observation and pain management. Then he will be relocated to a traditional rehabilitation center.
I visit him with my mom two days after the surgery. I hate it. Due to my own traumas, I’m skittish and uncomfortable in hospitals as it is, but my grandpa doesn’t look like himself and it makes me feel even more uneasy. He’s pale and drawn. He looks extremely frail and weak lying in the hospital bed, covered in a mountain of blankets to offset the cold of the ice packs on his heavily bandaged knees. Every tiny movement causes a grimace of pain, but he’s otherwise completely out of it, hopped up on pain meds and barely lucid.
“He looks really… old,” I mumble to my mom, and she agrees.
We stay and watch Jeopardy to keep my grandma company, but I can’t wait to get out of there. I try to focus on our whispered conversation and Alex Trebek’s haughty commentary, but I feel extremely anxious. The minutes stretch into what feels like hours and I’m clearly on edge, hovering near the door. I hate hospitals. I hate seeing my loved ones in pain. I feel this intense need to get out. Not necessarily home or anywhere in particular, just out of the building.
After we’ve done our due duty and the night nurses have started doing their rounds, we leave. Just going out through the doors and into the dingy parking garage brings a wave of relief.
“He looks really rough,” I say softly as my mom and I get into the car. “I hope this wasn’t a mistake.”
“Well, he’s not going to like it, but he’s going to have to work hard,” my mom says, starting up the engine. “Otherwise he’s going to be in really big trouble.”
***
My grandpa has an extremely difficult hospital stay. He’s in immense amounts of pain which deters him from wanting to move around or participate in bedside exercise. He’s angry and regretful. He’s telling anyone who will listen to never have this procedure done, no matter how good they make it seem. He’s not really eating or drinking and, as a result, he’s weak and lightheaded. The doctor visits and explains that everything he’s feeling is completely normal and expected. The recovery will not be easy nor quick, but it will be worth it. My grandpa is not convinced in the slightest and makes it known. My grandma is struggling to keep her patience and her sanity. This whole thing seems like an utter train wreck.
I go to our cafe spot and order my grandpa’s usual and a turkey club for myself, to go. I don’t know why I feel compelled to get myself something, but I do, even though I know I could get food elsewhere that I’d enjoy much more. I bring the bag of lunch up to the hospital and send my grandma home to take a shower and decompress. I roll the hospital tray table over next to the bed and set out our food. My grandpa is particularly grumpy today and taking it out on the visiting physical therapist who, bless her, seems completely unfazed, but he perks up when he sees I’ve brought his favorite lunch meal. I thank her for her patience as she leaves and then settle onto my side of the tray table.
“How are you doing?” I ask, unwrapping my unsurprisingly underwhelming sandwich. “Are you working hard?”
My grandpa pokes sheepishly at his turkey burger and hesitates.
I know that I’ve put him in a tough spot. It’s something that I alone can do. You see, my grandpa can’t really complain to me. Not here, not in this situation. I spent two weeks in the ICU and then two weeks in this exact general ward and then followed that up with three months at an acute rehabilitation facility. I had to work my ass off to regain the mobility that I did, even though it was only a fraction of what I had before my injury. The nature of my disability means that everyday is a struggle in one way or another, and giving up isn’t an option. We both know all of this and I’m using this shared knowledge as a weapon. I’m the only one who can.
“It’s hard,” he says, and his face flushes with embarrassment as he adds, “I’m a baby when it comes to pain. I didn’t think it would hurt this much.”
“I know,” I say sympathetically and uncover his side salad for him. “But, try not to be such a downer all the time. It’s going to be tough, but it will be a good thing in the long run. You have to believe that. And you have to give Gram a break too. Everyone is trying to support you, but if you keep rebuffing all the attempts, you’re going to find yourself very lonely.”
He gives a small nod.
That’s all the needs to be said, really. In my own way, I know that I've grounded him and reminded him of how much worse it could be. I don’t want to be too harsh or too pushy, so I leave it at that and steer the chat towards our usual lunch time discussions. I’m hyper aware of my surroundings and the fact that we are in a hospital and not the cafe, but I’m less anxious this time. My grandpa looks more like himself and he’s sitting upright and holding conversation like normal, so that helps a lot. He thanks me for bringing lunch and I make him promise that we’ll return to our usual table at the cafe soon.
***
My grandpa gets his act together, thankfully. I know it’s a number of contributing factors, but I like to think that our lunch date played a part. He still whines a lot and refuses to admit that the surgery was a good decision, but he progresses enough to be moved to the rehab facility. He spends two weeks there recovering and learning to trust his new knees. He trades the walker for a cane. I think he even grows to enjoy the rigid PT schedule and working one-on-one with a trainer. We all visit a few times to break up the monotony and remind him why he’s working so hard. Soon enough, right before Thanksgiving, he’s ready to head home and to start getting back to real life. I can tell he’s scared, but he’s also missing the normalcy and his routine. He’s still in the very early stages of recovery, but the rest is up to him. The PT packs him up a few resistance bands and a print out of home exercises and then he’s sprung free.
***
“Happy ann-knee-versary!” I say as I lean in to greet him with a hug. “I’m sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find parking today.”
My grandpa laughs and cringes at the pun, but I know he’s tickled I’ve paid attention to the date. I take my place at the familiar table in front of the window, my unsweetened iced tea already waiting for me, and grab for the menu.
It’s been a year since my grandpa’s double knee replacement and quite a few months since we first resumed our biweekly lunch dates. Some things have changed, but not too much. For one, my grandpa isn’t all hunched over when he walks anymore. He’s also looking much more fit, having lost quite a bit of weight now that he’s more active. He’s still not willing to admit that the surgery was a success, but we let him keep his pride. We can all can see the truth of the matter in the way he’s able to work on his old Camaro again and follow my little cousins around the soccer field. On my end, I’m looking quite forward to my sandwich, wilted lettuce and all.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but seeing my grandpa in the hospital right after his surgery really frightened me. I had been preoccupied by the immediate crushing sense of doom that descends upon me the moment I enter a hospital, but upon later reflection, I realized that seeing him so sad and frail was sobering. I’m so blessed and thankful to continue to have not only him, but my other grandparents in my life as well. The harsh reality, however, is that they are getting old and our time together is becoming limited. I’ve certainly taken their presence for granted. The thought of them not being around one day is devastating, but it’s an inevitability, and the experience certainly gave me a renewed sense of appreciation.
“What will it be today?” the waitress asks, looking at me. “I already know what you want.” She teases my grandpa and shakes her head.
I pick something. It doesn’t matter what. I know I’m going to enjoy it. I’m going to enjoy every mediocre sandwich I get from this place for as long as our little lunch meetups go on. I’ll try the whole menu. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. I’ll never get tired of it.
My grandpa isn’t the most resilient or the most optimistic. He can’t find where the pictures are stored on his new iPhone and he’ll let you know if your establishment has an emergency exit partially blocked that is violating zoning code. He’s crabby and needy and predictable. But, I love him very much and I value our time together. And, I hope to have many many more years of underwhelming sandwiches.
no subject
I could feel so much love in this piece. And I hope you have many more years of underwhelming sandwiches too <3