Going Away Gift

There was still one box of Grandma Rose’s things in the garage attic when I went home this summer.
It was a simple cardboard box, somehow overlooked when our family distributed the meager  possessions of a 100-year-old woman who’d lived the last decade of her life in a nursing home.
There had been just a few things in the first place — things she’d kept in her room at St. Gerard’s Nursing Home in Hankinson, North Dakota. Actually, “room” is a generous term for her last home. She shared the space with a roommate, with her half being just big enough for a single bed, a rocking chair and a three-drawer dresser.
But what St. Gerard’s lacked in space, it made up for with love and compassion and genuine caring. Most of the women who work there had known my grandma all of their lives. The nuns from the Sister School had always called her a friend; by the end, they were calling her their “saint.” Grandma loved it there and they loved her.
And so, over the years — over the birthdays and Halloweens and Christmases and other moments worth remembering — little things had collected on top of the dresser or on the shelf on the wall. And those were the things her family lovingly packed in their suitcases after the funeral.
But this one box had been forgotten. My dad — her first-born of six sons — had stashed it up there, out of the way, long before Grandma died last January.
“Let’s see what’s in Grandma’s box,” I said one July night as we sat on the back porch, watching the martins and sparrows fly into their birdhouses. “What do you want with that box?” my dad gruffly asked. “There’s nothing in it.”
But my sister, Judy, and I went to bring it down anyway. And for once, my father was wrong.
My grandma took a long time to die, and I’ll never understand how God could have let that happen. She’d led such a wonderful life, a go-to-mass-every-day kind of life, a raise-a-good-family kind of life, a be-kind-to-everyone kind of life. So why she’d have to suffer for six months makes no sense.
She’d been doing fine — not just fine, but great — until just two months shy of her 100th birthday. Our entire family was planning a gala birthday party for her in the summer of 2001. Invitations had been sent; an ad announcing an open house in her honor had run in the local weekly. Her children and most of her grandchildren had plane tickets to North Dakota. Even one great-grandson was coming.
I called my grandma most Sundays, and during that year, often told her about things we were planning for the birthday party. “Oh, Janney, I hope I’m still here,” she’d tease me, using my family nickname. And I’d scold back, “You better be here.” And we’d laugh. One of the things I will always hold close to my heart is that I could make my grandmother laugh. It’s one of the most important things I’ve ever done.
And then she fell and broke her hip. At 99 years and 10 months, she survived a five-hour hip replacement surgery, but she never really “came back” after that. She was in pain, she had no appetite, she lost a frightening amount of weight, she was listless, she was depressed. When she stopped going to daily mass at the chapel across from her room, we really got worried.
But we all gathered for the birthday that had been so long in the planning, and prayed Grandma was up for it. I’ve got to tell you, she rallied like a trooper and it turned out to be a fabulous party.
Months before, I’d wished out loud to my friend Estelle that there would be 100 roses at my Grandma Rose’s 100th birthday party. Estelle, whose own dear “Ya Ya” was as important to her as my grandma was to me, immediately said she’d like to send the flowers as her gift to my family. I protested that it was too much, but Estelle insisted that it wasn’t, and I don’t win many arguments with her anyway — this wasn’t one I was sad to lose.
I remember calling my mother to start collecting vases, because we had an incredible bouquet of 100 flowers coming from Estelle. My mother was pretty impressed. I called the local flower shop in Hankinson, and asked if they would receive the roses and strip them. We cut a deal on labor costs and everything was set. So you can imagine the reaction when Estelle decided to send 750 roses — more roses than this flower shop orders for its biggest selling day of the year.
Astonishing news travels fast in Hankinson, and this was astonishing news. “Rudy,” somebody asked my dad. “How much does it cost for 750 roses?” “Don’t know,” he answered with a smile. “They were a gift.” Nobody in Hankinson has ever known anyone who would give such a gift — I’ve never had a friend do anything so magnificently over-the-top. But leave it to my friend Estelle to understand the perfect moment to honor my Grandma Rose.
So the day before the party, her family all gathered in the kitchen of the Senior Citizen’s Center to fill the vases. Even the men got into the act — my Uncle Paul turns out to be quite a flower arranger. My Uncle Dennis came up with the idea of putting a giant bouquet of roses by the door so everyone could take one home after the party. We had several vases on each table, and the top of the piano had a long spray — so did the mantel of the fireplace. We made corsages for everyone in the family. It was one gorgeous room.
Grandma couldn’t believe there were so many roses in her honor. If she told me once, she told me a dozen times to be sure my friend knew how much she loved them. She looked so lovely and kept laughing and kissing everyone. She’d never had a party like this before, and couldn’t believe so many people had come. Her only living sibling, Andy, was there, and it was a special moment of joy when they embraced.
She was impressed that all of my mother’s siblings came, too, including Uncle Petie from Montana, who got a special hug. (I was thrilled that all my aunts and uncles from both sides were partying together.) Although she couldn’t see anyone, she knew many of the voices, or was filled in by my dad, who stayed at her side the whole party. I know she had a good time, because she told me so.
Nobody left the party without a rose. Every single person was asked to take a rose home in honor of Rose. Mother also gave generous bouquets to the nuns for the Sister’s School, and to friends from other churches. She, of course, had already sent bouquets to our Catholic Church and the nursing home and its chapel. And my sister had made sure there were lovely bouquets in my mother’s lovely home. I’m not sure many bouquets of roses have ever spread so much joy. But it’s safe to say that most of Hankinson had a rose in honor of my grandmother.
Our family spent the next few days reading her the birthday cards. We’d describe the card and read the verse and then Grandma would tell us about the person who’d sent it. Some added a few dollars; some sent a present like a cross or an angel; some had masses said in her honor. She even had a card from the president. She was surrounded by family and love, and she gave it back to each one of us.
Grandma went straight downhill after that. And my parents began a vigil at her bedside. They’d always been attentive — my mother had become a regular volunteer at the home during my grandma’s entire stay — but now, it was part of their daily life. My sister, Judy, who’d always been devoted to her grandma, visited her every weekend when she came home. My brother, Gary, went to see her often. The rest of us lived away and were increasingly alarmed at the reports we were getting. That fall, when my godson, Robert, was visiting me in Phoenix, we called Grandma and it was obvious she didn’t understand who we were.
By the time I went home last Christmas, my Grandma’s frail body was still there, but she simply wasn’t anymore. She was never really awake; she couldn’t talk except to moan about the pain; her eyes were sometimes open, but she didn’t see you; she never even knew we were there. But we’d go every day to sit with her, praying she was sleeping because she was out of pain when she slept and that seemed to be the only time she had peace. I never dreamed I’d pray for my grandma to die, but I did and it still ticks me off that God would let it get to that.
That Christmas was such a contrast. My mother’s home was all decorated for the holidays, and the kitchen was filled with just-baked cookies. Back in Phoenix, my own home had a Christmas tree in every room and was filled with the collections I so prize — Santas, angels, Nativity sets from around the world. And then there was the nursing home where all the decorations in the world couldn’t hide the pain in my grandma’s room.
Last Christmas Eve, my mother asked us all to take turns visiting so Grandma wouldn’t be alone. I stopped at the flower shop that had been such a source of joy just months before and bought her a couple of roses. None of us could stand decorating her room, as though there were any joy in this season for her, but I thought she needed some ornaments. I also took her the wooden angel I had decorated. I unwrapped her present and put it on the dresser by the roses.
I have all these funny and wonderful pictures of my grandmother at her favorite holiday. She’s wearing a hat that proclaims, “I Believe”; she’s holding an animated Christmas toy that makes some wacky sound; she’s surrounded by presents in my parents’ living room; she’s sitting at the dining room table with Grandpa Leo, waiting for my mother’s feast. I hope if I look at those pictures long enough, it will erase the painful memory of my grandmother on the last Christmas of her life.
It wasn’t a very big box, and I’d expected my dad was right — that whatever was inside wasn’t much. But there was an angel in a pink dress, and yes, Mother said, you can have that. And there was a silly moose dressed in a Santa suit, whose paw says “press here,” and when you do, he jiggles and moves his plastic mouth and sings Jingle Bell Rock. (Did I mention he has a green and white wool scarf around his neck? He does.) Nobody else wanted him, so he came home to Phoenix.
And then I found a small box that once held “Nu-Salt” shakers, “a sodium-free salt substitute,” according to the printing on the cardboard.
“Oh My God,” I said as I carefully brought out the three wooden figurines that had been wrapped in tissue paper. The largest is a man on one knee, his head bowed. The next is a woman, her hands folded in prayer. The smallest is a baby in a cradle. One still holds the sticker, “Made in Bethlehem, Israel.”
In 1987, I went on an interfaith mission to Israel through the Jewish Federation of Phoenix. On our third day, we visited Bethlehem and had a short stop at a gift shop. I spent a good chunk of money buying Nativity sets for my family. It was only after I’d shipped them all off that I realized I’d forgotten to buy a set for myself. So the collection I’ve assembled over the years has always been missing the most important Nativity of them all.
Here, in this simple brown box, was the set I’d sent my grandparents. It was one of the few things Grandma took with her when she moved into the nursing home. My sister knew it well, from all the years of decorating her room. “Grandma would always say, ‘Put up the Nativity set Janney sent,’” Judy remembers.

And so, this Christmas, when she’s free of pain and celebrating with the Birthday Boy himself, I’ll place the Nativity she loved in a place of honor in my home. It will be there every year. The last won.