My Grandmother's Ritual: A More Personal Essay on Aging
My life could not be more different than my grandmother's. She was born and raised in a farming village in China and deprived of an education because she was female. She narrowly escaped having her feet bound because she was too important to the family's livelihood, farming.
She came to Canada, sponsored by my father. Though she would live in Canada for the next 40+ years, she would never learn english, no matter how hard she tried. Instead, she developed an eerily accurate intuition for what was being discussed around her no matter the language spoken.
I, on the other hand, was born in Canada and pursued an additional 13 years of education after high school. Not only have I been able to pursue a profession, which was never an option for my grandmother, but I have been doing so during a technological boom that has transformed our personal lives at a speed that has been unmatched in history. As I was saying, our lives could not have been more different.
When I was in my 20s, putting my grandmother in her 70s, she started to complain about aging. It almost became a ritual when visiting her. She would take my hand and pull me to the couch to sit with her. "My eyes," she would start, "I can't see clearly and they are very itchy." She would then proceed to the nerve pain that shot down both her legs and her difficulties going to the bathroom. "I can't sleep, and I have to take needles for my diabetes," she would conclude. When she saw that in my youth, I could not offer her much more than a shoulder rub and a nod, she would turn her attention to my palm and tell me my fortune. "You have a long life ahead of you," she would say, tracing her finger along a crease in my hand, following it all the way down to my wrist. I enjoyed these interactions, each one nearly identical to the last, because I drew deep comfort in its repetition. They gave me a sense of stability, of sameness. My grandmother was an unwavering presence in my life. She was always happy to see me and to talk with me. After her medical update, my palm reading, she would end with telling me how proud she was of me. And then, quite simply, she would just get on with it. And by it, I mean living. She just kept on. She cooked until she could no longer cook, she raked leaves until she could no longer rake leaves. She took walks around the neighbourhood until the pain made her stop. I never heard her complain as one by one, the tasks giving her agency in her life disappeared forever. She was a constant in my life, until without any sound, she wasn't.
Her slow physical deterioration was not alarming to me because she did not seem all that alarmed by it. She was uncomfortable, but she was stoic and accepted what was happening to her body. She had a quiet composure that is hard to come by these days and my time with her makes me realize that aging gracefully is not only about physical upkeep (an impossible task when working against time), but perhaps more importantly, it is a mindset.
I was totally and utterly in the dark about what my grandmother was going through even when she made reminding me her routine. And of course I would be. To be young is to feel physically resilient, even invincible. Only now, in my 40s, do I lament that I was not there for her like I could be now. I run through the list of my grandmother's most common physical complaints and I have all but one of them...so far. In another 30 years, I will likely collect this last one, her spinal stenosis, too.
The physical symptom that is most unique to my grandmother was, in all seriousness, her flatulence. My grandmother was the most openly, unabashedly gassy person you would ever meet. And yes, this was hilarious at one point, but after a while, it was just background noise like everything else. And more impressively, in all my time with my grandmother in public spaces, I have never seen anyone react to it with so much as a blink. She could break wind while making direct eye contact with a stranger, and the stranger would still treat her with warmth and respect. There must have been a way my grandmother held herself that made people take a liking to her. She was short, sturdy, and unadorned in her appearance. She exuded an unflappability and a security about herself that put those around her at ease. Or maybe she was just really good at pretending nothing was happening and so those around her followed suit. Either way, these interactions that used to embarrass me, I see now as small examples of the goodness in people, and I am filled with gratitude.
I have my grandmother's rectum, but I lack her grace. I have my grandmother's eyes, but lack her ability to always see the best in others. My grandmother and I have both fallen hard on our right knee caps, causing a hairline fracture, yet I do not have her ability to walk so courageously into the uncertain future. I am riddled with fears of aging and injury. My vanity bemoans every new sunspot and wrinkle that appears.
What is it like to age? It is to feel fragile physically in a way that is brand new from just a few years before. It is to take longer to get going, and then longer still to recover. It is to feel pain and to feel stiff, when doing less than you were doing yesterday. It is to be more aware and to take more precaution.
To age is also to feel deeply connected to those who came before you. It is to aspire to have their strength and their poise. My grandmother passed away several years ago at the age of 96. For me, to age is to feel like she is still with me, closer now than ever before.