posted on 2021-05-21, 10:59authored byRebecca Martin
I. Introduction
In March of 2016, my Grandmother called me to ask if I could help her lift my aunt Tina out of bed and into her wheelchair. Born with spina bifida, Tina was paralyzed from the waist down; she lived with my grandmother who took care of her. Increasingly, a migrating pain that had first begun in her knee was making ordinary tasks difficult. That night, my grandmother
picked me up in her old green car and brought me to Tina’s bedside. I locked my arms through hers while my grandmother lifted her legs. As we pulled her into her chair, she cried out in pain. I hesitated, but at my grandmother’s urging, we continued. This had become normal. Once in her chair, Tina was pale and hardly spoke. I said goodbye to her, and my grandmother drove me back home. Later that night, when my grandmother couldn’t get Tina back into bed again, she called my parents’ house—I was there for dinner. We’re calling an ambulance, I heard my father say. My grandmother and Tina had adhered to the same daily rituals for at least twenty-six years; the whole length of my life. Now, they had reached a point where this was untenable. The paramedics picked Tina up that night. Within a few days, she was diagnosed with neuroendocrine cancer. She passed away three weeks later, shortly after her 52nd birthday. My grandmother and I both, separately, took the books off our bookshelves and put them back in order.