The Last Visit

"Come-on darling. Come-on. One more&;#8230; come-on. Look. It's
sweet"

"Nahhhhhh" , a loud wail responds to the incessant urging.

"You have to eat. You'll be hungry at 3 o'clock. Come on"

I check my watch. Twelve thirty.

"Nahhhhh&;#8230;nah more". The wailing is louder, more desperate. I
watch

the wrinkled face, eyes closed, the contorting grotesque motion of
bones

shuffling beneath the white sheet in agitation.

A hideous thought fleets through my mind&;#8230; the figure looks
almost corpse

like in it's shroud. Slamming the plastic container on the bedside
table in

frustration, the nurse picks up the plastic cup.

"What about drink? You want a drink Liza&;#8230;come-on. Come-on".
The heavy

Indian accent is almost angry in it's pleading.

"Nahhhh&;#8230;nahhhh more". The eyes screwed tight, white matted
hair

shaking with surprising determination.

"Ok Liza&;#8230; ok. No more".

The nurse looks at me, mouth smiling in an embarrassed way, eyes firm.
I

wonder if Liza was called darling when no-one else was in the
room.

I wonder how much the nurse smiled at the stubborn figures

that wailed and refused to eat before giving up and leaving them
starving in

their misery. What a job.

My hand is squeezed lightly and I look sideways at Baba, hoping
she

is awake now. Eyes still closed, head sitting lopsided on thin
shoulders that

seemed too fragile to support the slight nodding.

"Come-on Baba" I whisper in to her in Ukrainian, "Come-on. Wake up.
It's

Natalie. I've come to visit. Come-on"

No response. Her slight fingers still grip mine in her sleep.

With my other hand I smooth the grey-white hair from her temple
and

notice that her face has a slight tinge of pink. She looks more
healthy

today. Or did I want her to look that way. Tears started. No. Stop.
Hold back.

Wait until after I scolded myself. Baba doesn't want to see you
crying.

I un-entwined my fingers, reached across the bed and grabbed the
bag

containing the plastic container I had bought at Woolworths that
morning to

display the apricot roses. The rustling paper caught the attention of
the

Hungarian woman seated opposite Baba's day-chair who had, for the last
ten

minutes, been staring out the window with a blank expression on her
face

oblivious to the fact that I had even walked in.

I hate this place, this new room where they had placed Baba. Why
couldn't she

have stayed in her own room? Didn't matter I thought. Any room in
this

bloody place was a light filled, white walled prison. Now complete with
2

crazy ladies; one bedridden who wailed when spoken to and a
spooky,

mumbling one who sat cross legged in the chair next to her bed. There
was

no privacy, unless I pulled the curtain across and endured the
erratic

mumblings of the seated woman who took the closing curtains as an
insult

and mumbled loudly to no-one in her own language. She was watching
my

every motion now. I won't care this time, I told myself. She can stare
all

she likes. Her large brown eyes were open wide, hair tied in a messy
chignon.

I notice for the first time that she has no sign near her bed with her
name on

it like the others do A narrow wooden shelf above her head contains a
vase with plastic

daisies and a brown wooden photo frame whose picture was too small to
see.

I wonder what her name is? Where are her visitors? I had never
seen

anyone visit her since they moved my Baba next to these wretched
beings

a few months ago.

Dad had found out she was Polish from one of the nurses a few
weeks

ago. Probably why she started yelling at me the first time I walked in
and

started speaking to Baba in a language that sounded similar to her
own.

Confused. She is still watching me as I unwrap the plastic

and paper from the roses. I turn away towards the bed. Stop
bloody

looking at me. I wish Baba would look at me. A guttural moan from Baba
and

I quickly turn around. Still asleep. Mouth moving now as if she
is

chewing something in her sleep. Chewing on Parkinson's curse for mains
and

Alzheimers for dessert.

I move the day bed to the side and go to the bathroom. Is it the
first

door or second door? I can't remember. Hate to check in case I see
more

old people unintentionally exposing their crumpled skin or
agonised

expressions. It is the first door. Thank you God. I quickly fill up the
plastic container

with water in the small sink, not wanting to inhale more of the smell
of

disinfectant mixed with stale sweat and urine than I had to. Hurrying
out I almost

collide with an old lady in a walking frame.

"Watch out Doris.." a friendly male voice warns in front of me.
"Lookout

Doris there's someone behind you" he prompts louder. I looked up
and

smile awkwardly at the male nurse. He smiles back warmly. How can
he

smile so wide in this place? Doris slows to an almost
imperceptible

shuffle and I stop, not wanting to crowd her, or push past. I would
wait.

Her eyes are open when I come back into the room .Yes!

"Hello Baba. It's me. Natalie. Hello". I wait for the corners of her
mouth to

lift up in a welcoming smile. There is none.

I place the water filled container on the bedside table, unwrap the
elastic

from the roses, and swiftly arrange the stems.

I turn to face Baba who is staring blankly ahead.

"Hey Baba. Look. They've brought your lunch". How long would have the
tray

containing 2 small covered plastic bowls and a glass topped with foil
been

sitting there untouched if I wasn't here? Bloody nurses. Don't
care.

I sit down on the bed, uncover the first bowl and pick up the spoon.
Custard

and stewed apple. I check the glass. Brown apple juice. The second bowl
contains cold

potato and pumpkin mash with a cold brown sauce. I place a small amount
of potato on

the spoon.

"Baba. Here. Some potato. It's a bit cold." I push the spoon near her
lips so

she can feel it. "Baba. Here. Open up. Come-on".

No movement. Her lips are pressed tight and she turns her head
away

slightly.

"Baba you have to eat. Come-on". I glance at the Polish lady. She is
still staring at me, wide

eyes watching me. Don't you have anything better to look at I want to
ask her and then think

how ludicrous that is. I turn back to Baba.

"What about a drink Baba? Here".

I put down the spoon on the plate, pick up the cup and press it to her
lips.

"No?". I see her eyes looking in the distance still. Mouth set firm. I
move into her

line of vision and smile. No response.

"Baba. Come-on. It's hot today. Have some drink. Please"

I wrap her fingers around the glass and she grips it. Perhaps she
will

remember for herself what the glass is for. No movement. Head immobile
as I

raise the glass, my hand on hers.

Her lips open a fraction. "Yes. Come-on. That's it."

As she takes the slightest of sips. Her mouth purses again as if
she

wants to expel something from it. She has been doing this for a few
months

now. The nurses say it's the motor neurones going haywire. What would
they

know?

"Another sip? Come-on Baba. Then you can have something to eat". My
hand

lifts hers to her mouth and drops of liquid trickle from the cup onto
her lips.

She swallows as if it has been a huge gulp.

"More?".

"Nyi. No. No." Baba whispers.

My heart starts racing. She's spoken.

"Baba. Hello. It's Natalie. Hello."

I search her eyes. Blank. No recognition. The tears start again. Stop
crying I

tell myself. Who are you crying for anyway? She can't see you, doesn't
know

you. Doesn't know who is here with her now. Crying only makes you
feel&;#8230; what&;#8230;not better?

It hurts.

Blinking away the tears, they start to roll more quickly and pool
around the rim of my glasses.

Wide eyes is still staring at me. I don't care. She probably can't see
this far anyway.

I pick up the spoon of mash. Baba turns her head away.

"Talk to me Baba. Please. What do you want?"

I put the spoon down and place the cup in her hand again. Suddenly
her

other hand reaches out to touch the zipper on the armrest. She fiddles
with it,

head slightly bent now in concentration. I recall two weeks ago when
she

tried to eat the blanket. I pulled it from her hands in disgust. I
clasp her other

hand. "What are you fiddling with that for Baba? Here, have something
to eat.

You'll be hungry later. Come-on".

The hand flops on her lap, slightly trembling

I wonder how my aunt pleads with her. Does she eat when Helen is
here?

Last Wednesday Baba ate everything for lunch I recall my Dad telling us
over

dinner that night in a relieved voice.

I look at her vacant eyes . Why won't you eat today? Why won't you eat
for

me? I pick up the spoon again. "Come-on. Just a few spoonfuls".

Her mouth opens. "There. Good Baba. Good". I say it loudly. Babas eyes
flicker, or I think

they do. Her mouth opens again. Another spoon. She only takes half, the
other half left

smeared over her lips. I reach over to the tissue box. It's empty.
Bloody hell.

"Another spoon? No.?" Her head turns slightly. Enough.

I put the plate and spoon down on the bed and rummage around in
my

handbag for a tissue. Got it. I wipe her mouth. Her fingers clench
tightly on

the blanket and she tries to pull it upwards. I tuck it in around her
and grasp

both hands.

"Baba. What are you thinking hey?. Guess what. I'm moving out of
home.

Soon. It will be good. With Darren. You remember Darren don't you?
Yes?"

I look into her eyes. Grey-blue. In the 28 years I have known my
grandmother

I have never looked right into her eyes as I have over the last fifteen
months.

Most times they look the same. Staring and empty. I wish she would just
nod

or smile at me or something. Anything. Please.

"It's Easter soon Baba. We will bring Easter dinner for you. Some sweet
bread

and sausage and eggs. A little Easter basket for you once it's been
blessed at

church. This year Easter is four weeks after the Australian one,
did

you know Baba?".

No response. I move in a bit closer..

"Has Aunty Helen been today or yesterday? What about Dido, grandpa. Has
he

been recently?. I know Dad came on Wednesday with Helen and Aunty Anna.
He

said you ate very well on Wednesday and that you recognised him.
It's

probably his loud voice isn't Baba? Isn't it? That's probably what
you

remember". I laugh to myself, as I recall the familiar picture of my
dad strolling around the

nursing home in his booming voice, chatting up the nurses and calling
out to some of the

patients by name. Baba always loved Dad, especially when he brought
champagne to dinner.

I smile at her and smooth the top of her head, like she would have
smoothed

mine all those years ago. Her head was getting smaller each time I
came, I

was sure. I looked at her lean arms through the opaque beige blouse.
The

blouse was from a blouse/skirt set Baba used to wear to church. Still
dressed

in her best on Sunday. How ironic.

"Matthew won a car race two weeks ago Baba. Remember Matthew. My

brother.Your grandson. Dad was so proud when he brought the trophy
home.

I'll get Matthew to bring it here to you so you can see it and he can
tell you

about it". I tried to recall the last time Matthew had visited. It must
have been

months ago. I would tell him when I got home that he must come with
me

next fortnight. And Elena too."

"George came the other week to see you Baba. George". Yes, my
other

brother had found time in his busy schedule to come and visit. I
resolved then to get the four

of us, George, Matthew, Elena and myself here next week to visit Baba.
They need to be

here. We all need to be here. I need to be here.

Baba's mouth gnawed again. Her eyes still watching beyond me at
the

cupboard. I imagine that she is looking at the photos on top of
the

cupboard. I knew all three photos by heart&;#8230; my favourite of
the three was the family at

Christmas two years ago.

Baba seated at the table in her blue cardigan and green flowered
dress,

surrounded by myself, George, Elena and Matthew standing at the sides
of

her chair and Mum and Dad in the background. Baba's husband - Dido
and

Aunty Helen seated either side.

The photoframe for this one was pink floral material with lace
trimming. A primary

school project of mine that Baba had kept. I'm glad it is here with her
now.

Dear Baba. Such a happy person Baba is. Always smiling. Always
warm.

Was. Is. The tears start again.

I struggle to remember a time when she ever got angry with us kids when
we

were younger.

Not once can I recall a harsh word or raised voice. Her little
sunshines. That's

what she called us all the time&;#8230; "Hello my little sunshines"
And then arms

open for a hug and kisses.

I move into her line of vision again and she looks in my direction.
Mouth

still moving away, chewing on nothing, eyes still in another
place.

"Baba. Where are you?" I whisper, tears falling freely now. Three

attempts at discreetly wiping them away had resulted in a wet sleeve,
so I

turned away from the staring woman and wiped my face with the bottom
of

my top.

A figure in orange bursts into the room. I watched Baba's head raise
and eyes

look towards the oncoming nurse dressed in a fluro orange shirt.

"Hello Maria" she smiled at Baba.

"Hello Natalie" the nurse smiles at me. It was the nice nurse. What was
her name

again? The nurse looks at me and I am sure she notices my red eyes.
She

comes up behind Baba's chair and readjust her pillows.

"She's got a bit of colour today, your grandmother does."

"Yes." I nod. "She doesn't seem hungry though".

"Oh no" the nurse said lightly "Maria ate all her breakfast this
morning&;#8230;didn't

you Maria". She looks at her and touches her cheek. "She was very
good".

The nurse bends down towards Baba to smile at her like one does with
little

babies. Baba's face lifts upwards in recognition. I think I see a small
smile

on Baba's face as her eyes appear to focus on the nurses bright blue
ones.

Not fair. Why won't she look at me. Why?

'That's good" I said to the nurse trying to sound light. "I was
worried".

"She's alright..aren't you Maria". Baba's head lifted again for a few
minutes

and then down to it's normal lopsided position on her chest.

"She knows you" I mumbled

"Yes. Of course" the nurse said quickly "We are great friends..aren't
we

Maria?" There was no lifting of the head this time. Baba was back again
in her

daze&;#8230;

"Did you want me to leave the drink?"

"Yes" I nodded. "She might want some more later". I wait until the
nurse

had left the room with the tray.

"Baba. You want some more drink?" I place the cup in her hand but
she

doesn't grasp it this time.

"What about TV? Do you want to watch a movie like we did last time
Baba?

Maybe there's one of those old movies we like". I move across to the
end of

the bed and went to wheel the trolley table in front of her. Stopping,
I

remember that Dad had said that he'd tried it on Wednesday and was
bringing our little one in

on Tuesday.

I look around. The rose. Baba loved roses. I extract it carefully from
the

prickly leaves and hold it in front of her. Her eyes move over
it&;#8230; I hold it

closer so she can smell it. No reaction.

"Look Baba. An apricot rose. You love roses. Remember?".

I wonder what she remembers and what she doesn't. Does she
remember

Didos rose garden. Does she remember me? She remembers the nurse. Of
course she

would.

My thoughts flash back to Christmas dinner when Aunty Helen had
brought

Baba home for the day. Home, where Baba used to live with Aunty Helen
and

Dido, not so long ago. Slumped at the table in her wheelchair Baba's
face

only lifted twice during the five hours we were there. Once when we
sang a

Christmas carol and the other when Helen put on a record of the
church

choir singing. The choir that Baba sang in not so long ago. Baba
had

definitely recalled something then, sitting up with a jerk, eyes wide.
At

attention. Listening. Head titled for a few precious seconds. And then
nothing. And then

everyone had broken down.

What is she thinking now? Talk to me Baba.

I watch her eyes closing.

"Tired Baba" I whisper and smooth her hair again. My throat is on

fire, a large bulge had settled there and refused to move. I wipe more
tears

away and glance at the staring woman. She catches my eye and
starts

to bang her plastic cup on the trolley table in front of her. I look at
her and

frown but she continues. Shut up I wanted to yell. Stop it. Baba is
asleep.

The noise didn't have any effect on Baba, her head settles a bit lower
on her

chest, eyes firmly shut. Against what. Against the noise? Against
me?

I looked at my watch. Time to go. Class in an hour.

"Yes, Yes&;#8230; Anna. Yes". A nurse enters wheeling a chair. "Yes
Anna, I hear

you" the nurse almost hollers in response to the banging. "I know. It's
toilet

time. Come-on Anna. Let's go."

The nurse shrugs her shoulders at me and smirks. "Bossy this

one is&;#8230; We've got signals. Banging cup equals toilet time."
The nurse

laughs expecting me to join her but I can only manage a half smile and
turn

back to Baba.

So the Polish woman is called Anna. Cup banging, staring Anna.

I clasped Baba's hand again in both of mine and squeeze lightly. "I
have to

go now Baba."

Her mouth begins gnawing again. The crinkled eyes appear to sink
into

her cheeks. I noticed a bit of moisture on the lashes and quickly look
away.

Not tears no. They are not tears. They can't be tears. No. She's
sleeping.

Placing her hands gently on her lap I cover them with the blanket and
then

stand up.

I wipe my own cheeks with my sleeve, not caring that my glass frames
are

now blurred. I get my handbag from the bed, hoist it on my

shoulder and then lean down to kiss Baba on the forehead. It is
slightly moist

to the touch. I stroke the furrows in her brow. 'Bye Baba." I kiss
her

forehead again and then leave quickly. Head down so the passing nurses
and

patients stumbling along in their walkers can't see my the foggy lens
and wet

cheeks.

The sun hits my face as I open the door and walk down the three cream
tiled

steps to the car. I breathe deeply.

Once, twice, three times. Control. Control. I whisper to myself.

I raise my hands to my nose and can smell Baba.

Opening the car door I sink into the drivers seat, shut the door and
the torrent

begins.

My shoulders heave and a sharp pain darts across my forehead from
holding

this pain inside for the last hour and a half.

"You shouldn't go if it makes you this upset" My boyfriends words from
the

fortnight before echo in my head.

"How can I not go?" I had replied angrily. "She knows who I am. I have
to

visit. She's got no-one there.. How can you say that? Mum goes every
week.

Aunty Helen goes every second or third day. If anything I should be
going

more often." The barrage of explanations leading to more tears and
a

cheerless afternoon.

It's harder each time, I'm sure. I force the tears to stoop and start
the car,

wipe my face with the pile of tissues carefully placed on the front
seat earlier and pull out

of the driveway. I wind the window down and listen to the hum of the
tyres

on the road.

"She knows that you love her and that you're there" my boyfriend
consoles

later.

I believe him.