Grandma Thoughts

I remember when my grandmother used to say: “I’m glad I’ve already raised my children." During the 1960’s, she shook her head in disbelief while I marched on Washington to protest the invasion of Cambodia, asked my parents to sign a permission slip so I could live in Tufts University’s first co-ed dorm, and attended outdoor rock concerts that sometimes lasted for days. This morning, I thought of my grandmother when I turned on my car radio and learned that a fifteen year-old student at a nearby suburban high school had been stabbed to death by one of his classmates. I thought of my grandmother because I cannot imagine what she would think about this shocking brutality, but also because I too am now a grandmother. I finally understand how she yearned to protect me from a world that had become increasingly unsafe, complex and confusing.

Simon is only twenty-two months old and his sibling is still in utero. Yesterday, I was reading “Writing Tools” in Simon’s living room while his mother was at a doctor’s appointment. By 4:00 p.m., his house was darkening and his puppy “Fiona” was quietly snoozing next to the fireplace. Sitting in the mid-January shadows, I realized my grandson could nap for hours but then, maybe he would have a hard time sleeping that night. More to the point, I wanted to see him. The stairs creaked as I walked up to the landing outside of his bedroom. Behind his closed door, I heard him rustle and yawn. When I opened the door, he picked up his head and squinted to see who was in the room. He rolled over onto his back and smiled to himself. “Guess who’s here?” I asked. “Gaga” he smiled, and stood up in his crib, raising his arms to be lifted out. We rocked back and forth in his glider chair while he drank a cup of milk and snuggled in my arms.

Later we played downstairs with his trains, his trucks, and his blocks. Carefully he gave me a number of vehicles “for Gaga”; together we built bridges, tunnels, and castles. When my children were small, I was always picking up the house, cooking, and making phone calls during this time of day. Having prepared his supper while he was sleeping, at this moment I could focus completely on him. Nothing was as important or imperative as tuning in to this little boy.

Before my daughter left, we had talked briefly about the Missouri boy who had just been discovered after having been kidnapped four years earlier. “It makes me sick…” she said, and I had to agree. I can recall how difficult it was for me to let my children ride their bicycles in our neighborhood after a nine year-old girl was kidnapped in our town. While still being vigilant, at some point we have to trust that our kids will be strong and use good judgment, and our neighbors will be watchful. The notion of school shootings and stabbings is a domain that I never had to face.

Kids have access to weapons, and absorb messages on the Internet, at the movies and during concerts. They learn that violence is a way to solve turf wars and to feel powerful. My grandmother never would have dreamed that our society would reach this point. Now that I am a grandmother, I wish I could wrap my grandson in his fleece blanket and shield him from the hostility that is surely lurking somewhere in his city.

Floating Appreciation

Twenty-three years ago, my husband, David, and I brought our infant son, Jason, to the Floating Hospital. Our baby was very sick with a high fever and one side of his face was so swollen that he couldn’t open his left eye. A team of doctors, led by Dr. Sidney Gellis, used CAT scan equipment that showed the infection inside his head. The doctors operated to drain the infection and kept him in the hospital on IV antibiotics for many weeks.

During that time, I had a cot next to Jason’s crib and was with him as much as possible. The people who cared for him: nurses, interns, medical students, and experienced physicians became my heroes not just because they made him better but because they genuinely cared about their work, their patients, and the families of the very sick children they were helping.

My family is so pleased that with the Boston Celtics Hero Book, we can do something special for others who are patients here and for the many people who take such good care of them.