Understanding In Three Acts

Act I

I visited my grandparents in Ohio this weekend. I hadn’t seen my father’s parents in over four years. My father found inexpensive plane tickets, and he asked if I could join him about two weeks ago. I told him that I would think about it. I did and we left Virginia without my brother on Friday.

I never doubted that I would make the trip. I was certain this visit would be my last time to see my grandparents alive. Rather, I was preparing myself for an intricate time. Both my grandparents have been ailing for a long time. The last time I saw my grandmother she was struggling to remain in her simple, two-story home on Main St. It was the first time I cared for a sick elder; for my brother it was a traumatic experience. My grandmother now resides with a family who offers her twenty-four hour care (she was violently unhappy at a caretaking facility); my grandfather has survived at “Heartland” moving once from their Bridgeport hometown to his current location in Centerburg, Ohio. Centerburg is said to be the center (read: heart) of Ohio.

Overall the visit was positive. My uncle remarked that my grandfather was more active during this visit than he had been in years. (The previous year my grandfather was not able to wake-up when my cousin visited.) Grandpa was fully awake, speaking, and expressive. He even managed to tease my father whom he told that although he was talking, he wasn’t saying anything. Our end was as nice as our beginning. We finished the visit with a few pictures.

We saw my grandmother twice who was admitted into the hospital for an infection. Her doctor described her as “ornery” which was assuring to my dad and uncle because that meant “she was back to herself.” Well, in a way. My grandmother has lived with cancer twice, thyroid disease, and a host of other physical ailments. But since I had last seen her, things had changed.

Like with my grandfather, my grandmother warmly greeted me. I remained silent for most of the time being content with smiling and being attentive to her physical needs. My father was surprised that she remembered details about who I was. I took this as a sign for reunion.

Yet I think I understood her. Grandma was sharing about how all of her family members were on TV. She had seen my brother on Letterman several times. My dad assured her that without her glasses that she saw people who resembled us on TV, but none of us appeared on TV. Grandma was particularly concerned about the UFOs hovering over the roofs outside her window. My uncle changed the subject. When we left the second night, grandma reminded me to let her know when I was ready—ready to run her hotel and get to the bottom of conspiracy surrounding her wealth that had engulfed my dad and uncle. I smiled and told her that I would.

Doctors have diagnosed my grandmother with Alzheimers, and another form of dementia. My father was persistently correcting her, insisting that she was mistaken, wrong, or sometimes chose to ignore her. I understood why he did this. I know how difficult it is for him to witness this change in his parents. At the same time my grandmother was very upset that she was being treated as if she was “crazy.” This I saw. Her family and caretakers’ attempts to be “rational” with her—to tell her the “truth”—deeply hurt her despite their best intentions. I think I understood her. We talked freely. And I enjoyed being with her.

Act II

Sunday evening I saw Seven Pounds. The film was awe-inspiring. I regret that I cannot share much more for fear of compromising the film, nonetheless, I think it was one of those unique transformative films. I related to Seven Pounds as a film about the depth of human capacity. Our power is remarkable. Yes. I think I understand.

Act III

Sleep tells a lot about us.

I was in an outdoor classroom with fifty or so students. One of my classmates was none other than a young Spike Lee. Our professor was dialoging with the class, and Spike Lee raised his hand. When called on, all he said was “ex-cess.” A sharp “ex” and “cess.” Silence--

He had made a poignant point.

Then he continued, “ex-cess,” “ex-cess,” “ex-cess,” and he went on for about a half an hour.

I woke up and in three instant flashes--noticed my dad’s snoring—remembered my uncle’s remark about Faithful over-consumption—and thought about my own sweet-food addiction.


Three simple acts. A lot of clarity. Prajna paramita.