I Have A Nemesis And He Is 89

He is married to my grandma and has a special gift for being so annoying, he could probably make the Pope snap. I spent a little time recently helping a couple of really hard-working and dutiful aunts take care of my grandma, who was in and out of the hospital with pneumonia and a staph infection. At one point she could barely talk or keep her eyes open, except to tell Aunt K where her cremation card was and to point out to me which options she wanted on the Medical Power of Attorney and Do Not Resuscitate forms. Nobody laughed but me when I offered to unplug the t.v. and microwave because I just wanted Grandma to be at peace. I was trying to keep things light.

As the day wore on, she could speak a little more in a raspy barely audible tone, and mostly to threaten to sue the hospital if they made any mistakes, like when she worried the nurse with the glass eye was going to over-medicate her. Who wouldn't trust this place?

I bet they took good care of that little cookie. Grammy's typically a really vibrant and active lady. At 84, she still drives, gambles, lives independently, takes care of her 89-year-old husband, the devil, and manages to have opinions on just about everything. When she was ready to get litigious, I was pretty sure she was going to pull through. She loves to sue, it keeps her going.

I just got home from my second stay in New Hampshire to help with recovery efforts, and this time she was "home" at my aunt's house with the devil, a loud Bostonian and Red Sox fan, which is just one more nail in the coffin that I'd like to bury him alive in. Example: yesterday, I washed some dishes that he dirtied and after he made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and, miraculously, walked his own dirty knife to the split sink, I asked him to put his dirty utensil on the left side because the right side had dishes drying. He's deaf, so I repeated myself three times until he gave me a side eye, said "I understand," and then dropped his sticky knife on top of my clean dishes.

Standing in a room with an 84-year-old and an 89-year-old, I didn't expect to be the one about to have a stroke. I stepped out of the room to cool off so that I wouldn't squeeze his fat greedy neck until his legs stopped kicking, and I love my Grandma to pieces, but I'm happy to be away from that troublemaker. This is a guy who faked falling off of a ladder and breaking his back so that he wouldn't have to go to his own son's wedding. He meticulously described nonexistent physical therapy sessions for weeks until he was in the clear of having to go. When being treated at the hospital recently, he yelled out a bunch of gibberish when the nurse put a needle in his arm and then turned to Nurse Wang and said "did you understand that? I was yelling in Chinese!"

He thrives on pushing people's buttons. I feel my blood pressure rising just reliving some of the worst moments. . . SHALOM! He likes to yell when I leave. He's got diabetes, among other things, and spends most days sleeping and eating candy and jimmy dean breakfast sandwiches cooked in the microwave. I can't share a bathroom with him.

As I hugged Grammy goodbye today, so relieved that she is bouncing back and taking really good care of herself, I resisted the urge to give her husband the finger behind her back. What's the term for the people who are old enough to be part of the "greatest generation," but they are total a-holes completely lacking in greatness? Nazis? I wish Grammy had better taste in men.

Side note: I learned a lot about managing the care of a loved one. My aunts work very hard to take care of my grandmother. The hardest part is knowing which questions to ask, when to say no, and when to ask for more. It's also a constant battle between what seems like the logical way to proceed, as agreed by the patient and the patient's medical providers, and what the insurance companies will approve and pay for. It's one of the many reasons that my husband and I have a suicide pact for when we turn about 75.