I have a good memory. Like, a very good memory. I remember exact conversations, which makes it very difficult to argue with me. I can tell you one little fact or story about every single person who graduated with me in my class from high school. I worked in retail real estate for a few years and I can still tell you the name, city, state and crime rates of malls across the country that I've never been in. This generally makes me pretty good at my job, whatever it may be. This also means that my memory is long, and I have been known to hold a grudge or two.
This sometimes translates into me being a petty on occasion. I recognize this as a flaw, but I try to balance this out by being petty in a less noticeable, and always vaguely deniable way. How does that work? At my old office, whenever the person I didn't like asked questions to the group, I never answered, even if I knew the answer. They had to ask me directly. When my brother annoys me, I buy snacks and drinks that I know he doesn't like. When customer service reps annoy me, I make them repeat the way they did me wrong before I allow us move on. It's a failing of character, but hopefully its not too bad. And ultimately, after my little petty displays, I feel like the balance has been righted somehow cosmically.
This is NOT a good personality trait for a caregiver. Regularly, things happen, things are said, and you're taught to get over it. It's not the person, it's the disease. Insert the Serenity Prayer here. But, I've got to tell you, completely acknowledging how this sounds, it is INCREDIBLY difficult to not feel or act petty. In a 24 hour stretch, my grandmother has called me fat like little pig (in the West Indian truth telling sorta way), told me I had the devil in me, asked me for ice cream, needed me to help her take her shower, woken me up at 4am for a 30 minute bathroom break, woken me up to make her tea, complained about how hot the tea was and refused to put on pants. All on a Saturday, when I had a cold. So, all that being said, guess who didn't get ice cream that day. Sorry, I just couldn't. It felt like I was rewarding the child throwing a temper tantrum in a store with a new toy AND candy.
I am a master of the quick rejoinder, and yet, every single day, I hold back my natural retorts. I don't say anything about the times my feelings are hurt. And I swear, in the mornings, I move around in stealth mode JUST to avoid waking up my grandmother and having to deal with her 30 minute bathroom breaks, in hopes that she'll stay asleep until the home health aide shows up. In weak moments, I'll admit, I've PRAYED "Please stay asleep. Please stay asleep." Does that mean, if she gets up I won't help? Nope. But with no thanks coming my way, and knowing that I'll be accused of wanting her to drop dead, just because I insist she washes her hands, is it so wrong to want to push that off on the person being paid to do this? Especially when she is SO much nicer to them? My inner third grader reacts to the injustice of it all. The third grader in me objects to always being nice to someone who isn't always nice to me. The third grader in me wants to says mean things back. The third grader in me wants to refuse to play or help the big meanie.
But then, sometimes, and I'll admit, not nearly as often as I should, I'll remember that actual third grader. The eight year old girl who grew up in a house with my grandmother. The grandmother who bought me pretty shoes, and made me special meatballs, and came to all my dance shows. The grandmother who kept all the terrible cheap Christmas gifts I insisted upon giving everyone since I was five. The grandmother who covered her walls and mirrors with photos of me, even when we lived in the same apartment. And the grandmother, who, when she had the capacity to know and say so, always told me she missed me while I was away at school.
Part of who I am today is thanks to this woman. A big part of why I've always felt secure in my family's love is because of how she raised her offspring. Goodness, the reason why I'm a bougie black girl with a similar "presidential" education, is because she came to this country and worked hard enough to bring each of her five children here too. On the really tough days, it can be easy to forget that.
But my memory is good. And when it's hard, I have to remember that.
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