I’m going to try to keep today’s post light, but it is with a somewhat heavy heart that I write today. My grandmother (Baba, as she is known to us) fell down the stairs the other night and is in the hospital with broken ribs, bruises from head to toe and the looming fear of pneumonia. She suffers from dementia and so she often goes in and out of lucidity. The fact that she mainly speaks Yiddish makes for an interesting dynamic between her, the doctors and the nurses.

My family is incredibly tight. Within hours of hearing of her fall my parents, my sisters, my cousin and myself were all at the hospital bombarding the doctors with questions and hammering on the nurses to make sure Baba’s IV’s were in properly, that her medication had been dispensed on time, that her oxygen levels were accurate and that well basically, they were competent enough to handle who we consider the most important patient in the hospital, and by and large the most important person in our lives.

If it weren’t for Baba’s relentless strength, none of us would be here.

I know that everyone’s grandparents hold a special place in their heart, but to me nobody holds a candle to Baba. This woman survived Auschwitz and Mauthausen, the two concentration camps that were considered to be the toughest, known for their large number of “exterminations.” She stood in the presence of Josef Mengele and lived to tell about it. She survived three husbands and the death of two children. So yeah to me, she’s better than your grandparents, or at the very least stronger than all of them put together. She certainly made a case for herself when, in the middle of last night, she ripped out her IV’s, stood up (with broken ribs) and said in Yiddish I’m sure, “I’m going home!”

Nobody keeps The Baba down. Her entire life she has managed to make that clear.

It goes without saying that seeing her in pain and angry at being told what to do is painful in a way that words fail to describe. And although I am the granddaughter, I immediately went into mother mode. It was pure instinct to be her voice and make sure that she was getting the best treatment possible, that she was comfortable, but most importantly that she was being respected. It was the very least I could do. Literally.

Sometimes “Going Parental” works in reverse. It is sad to watch the elderly regress into childlike behavior. But it is even more upsetting to watch as they are talked about as if they are not in the room, or it is assumed that they lack the ability to understand what is being said. I guess what I’m trying to say is that like my daughter, if you mess with my Baba, placate her in any way, treat her like some confused old woman with no sense of reality, I will (for lack of a better phrase) fuck you up. And if I don’t, I think it’s safe to say that, with broken ribs and all, she will.

Going Parental appears every Thursday (and promises to be funnier next week).

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