My grandma is what you would refer to as an old lady. A hip, highly intelligent, ridiculously acute, adorable old lady, but an old lady, nonetheless. Grandma Molly, who we have always affectionately called “Grandma from Florida” since we had a Grandma from New York as well, is 92-years-old. Ninety-two. That is 92 years, 1,104 months, 33,580 days and almost one whole century. A lady that age must know a LOT of stuff.
I’ve had 27 years to absorb all of this stuff, yet it’s never enough. How can you wrap up 92 years in a tight, 27-year bundle? The answer is: you can’t.
Me, Grandma Molly and my sister Jessica
When I received the phone call that Grandma Molly was in the hospital about five weeks ago, my heart sank. The prognosis was good, but how good can it be at 92-years-old? I had a flight scheduled the following week for the holidays and my dad told me to wait until then to come home. Thankfully, he relayed that the situation was not dire.
By the time I got home to West Palm Beach, Grandma was in the rehab facility…kicking ass. She was doing more hours of therapy than any of her other (even younger) rehab colleagues. Maniac Molly was the star pupil as she rocked her arm and leg exercises. All the old people were jealous! That’s my girl!
I have to interject by saying that my grandma is one of the strongest women I have ever met. Actually, if I look back at the main female role models in my life – Grandma and Mom – they are fearless, strong, stubborn (sometimes to a fault) fighters and I count them as the Cheekiest women I know. But to say that Molly knockin’ em dead in rehab was a given is an understatement. In her mind, it was a requirement.
Grandma grew up very wealthy in New York; she met my Grandpa, he proposed then immediately shipped off to war for four years, she got married, shifted her lifestyle as Grandpa became a plumber; had a baby boy (my dad!) despite a hip condition that deemed it almost impossible (the miracle!); endures said hip condition to this very day; suffered a mastectomy; smoked for 60 years and had two strokes; got through the first one, got through the second one, which was shocking to say the least; survived the latest hospital scare, started rockin’ rehab, then….. pneumonia.
A major setback. Grandma is currently in the hospital. Unlike the last time, however, my dad’s recent call was more dire. I flew home immediately. As I write this on the plane back to Chicago after three days in WPB (PBI->MDW), I am happy to say that she is once again going to be leaving the hospital and heading back to rehab.
What did I tell you? The lady gets knocked down and gets right back up again. 92-years-old.
Remember all that stuff I told you about? Almost a century’s worth of stories, tales, family history, fables, traditions, cultures and anecdotes? Those can never, ever be taken to the grave – they have to be passed down. This past trip alone, I learned the every-detail of Grandma’s wedding day at the St. George Hotel in New York: the long-sleeved, white, satin gown; the ice-blue maid-of-honor dress; the best darn Kosher caterer in Brooklyn, Tuffman and Katinsky (oy!); the fact that her father (she called him Papa – I didn’t know that) planned it in only two weeks! (We thought Kate and Will were fast.) Not one out of the 150 guests invited had to decline their invitation. The images I conjured were of merriment, Champagne, love, light, fringe dresses, revelry and lots of Mazel Tov-ing.
I also learned that Grandma’s father had multiple half-siblings that lived in Europe who were all killed in the Holocaust. A few survived and had children of their own – Grandma’s cousins. I had no idea.
I guess what I’m saying, or at least trying to say, is that we are all blessed by the stories and lives of those older than us, and those that share our name. I can’t say it just hit me now to absorb it all, but I have definitely been startled into wanting to learn more, more, more. I’m not fearful that it’s going to be too late anytime soon because Grandma Molly is going to go back to rehab and kick ass once again. She’ll be the all-star student in the front row with the energetic hand as she’s always been. She’ll be doing three hours of therapy to everybody else’s one. And although it might be a long road ahead of her, I don’t think she’s going anywhere just yet. I told her to wait until (at least) my wedding and I think the smirk on her face in response indicated that she would. After all, she’s a fighter… and she’s got too many stories to tell.
