Poppies for the powerless

Normal

My grandma always was a talker. Sometimes we'd talk for hours, laughing and crying at the most inappropriate part of the stories we told each other. I would keep her up to date with my life - friends, not-so friends, school, clubs, anything that was going on, really. She spoke of her childhood; painting me a picture of her father with his ocean blue eyes and crimson suspenders, and her mother's flowing dresses that always managed to match her sparkling emerald eyes.

Oh and her sister! My oh my did she have some great stories about my great aunt, Cherry. She was seven years older than my grandma Penelope but the bond between the two could rival that of twins. "Katie, my flower," she would begin, eyes glinting with excitement as though Penny and Cherry's adventure had happened only a day or two ago."Have I ever told you about the time Cherry and I figure-skated professionally in Belgium? Your great grandmother thought we were at a debate contest in New Mexico!"

When I was younger, trips to my grandmother's house in Cornwall were the highlight of my week. Every other weekend my father, brother and I would clamber into the old Ford Mustang and plan what type of flowers we would get her this visit. Poppies were her favourite: they reminded her of her late father, who would always wear a poppy with his medals of valour and bravery when he went away to war. Poppy was also what she was going to call her only daughter, before she suffered a miscarriage, but I didn't find that out until her funeral.

I remember the last time I visited before she went into hospital and our lives were flipped upside down. It was a rainy Friday afternoon - we left straight after school and my mother had booked the long weekend off from her work as an emergency surgeon. This weekend's flower was a lilac tulip, alongside a flake - her favourite childhood snack. My dad's temper was running short: Penny had had a fall during the week but he hadn't been able to visit her due to the union strikes. My fifteen year old brother, Colin, (I was twelve at the time, just started secondary school) was rambling on about some new program he had been working on at school. I wasn't listening, I was blasting bon Jovi Living on a Prayer on my walkman and had headphones in, but I heard him say something about Jaffascript, whatever that was.

After a three and a half hour drive, we pulled up to my grandmother's country cottage and I launched myself out of the car, running at full pelt towards the slightly ajar side door. "Knock,knock!" I screeched excitedly
"Who's there?" came the sing song reply.
"Olive!"
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Olive who?"
"I love you!"
"Awww, come her, my flower!" Grandma Pen flung open the door and wrapped me in a bear hug, kissing my auburn hair. My dad came up behind me, leaning over to kiss his mother on the cheek before entering the house and greeting Penelope's carer, Rosalie. Rosalie had been with us through thick and thin, he loyalty to my grandma never wavering. She had almost become a part of the family at this point.

My mother staggered over to us, her head barely visible over the mountain of luggage that was apparently essential for a two night visit. "Hi, Penny," my mum's muffled voice sounded wearily.
"Oh, no, Alyssa, darling!" My grandma gasped.
My worn out mother sighed, already knowing what her parent in law was about to say.
"Before you say it, yes I have been eating enough, and please, call me Aly."
My grandmother pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced but pressed no further. To be completely candid, my grandmother's misgivings about her wellbeing were not entirely absurd. Combining the long hours, sleepless nights and lack of time to stop for lunch, my mother's health was not as marvelous as it should have been for a woman as benevolent as her.

"I can't help it if I worry, my dear," my grandmother sulked, taking my bags with such ease I knew there would be a story behind how she acquired her muscles.

Drawing my attention from my mother and grandmother, my gaze landed on my father. He was exchanging quiet words with Rosalie, and his face seemed to age ten years with every sentence spoken. Curious, I strained my ears to hear what was being said. All I heard was snippets of the conversation, but that was all I needed.
"MS relapse.........sepsis in the lower legs.............needs to go to a care home..........."
My father ran a tired hand through his receding hair.

Despite Rosalie's warnings, my father didn't put my grandmother in a home for two years. By then, her mind had fallen into a place I still don't know the location of, not wanted to. We had to wrap her legs in bandages so the sepsis didn't worsen. At that point, her memories were fading and she often forgot little things like turning off the oven and big things like that her wife had died. And, it pains me to say, my name. That is where I will next pick up the story, but when is unknown to me.