Killing Me Softly

Grandma is in the hospital...for the third time in 8 months with the same complaint. She and Grand-daddy raised me from a little sprout to a fourth grader with grand intentions and big dreams.

My Grandma has always been heavy. I've seen pictures of her before the birth of my mother and aunt in which she is a tall, rather Amazonic and attractive woman. However, when I came to know her, she was, as most Grandma's are (except for the little wispy ones) a cushy, cozy, plumpy woman who could make everything all good even when Grand-daddy was threatening me with the flyswatter. "Claude, you are not going to hurt this child!!" as I cowered behind her massive buttocks. I never taunted Grand-daddy from there as I knew he would eventually find me outside of Grandma's protective sphere and give me a sound "whippin'" with the swatter...fly guts and all.

Need less to say, I love...love dearly, my Grandparents, but they are very different people in many respects, a few quite integral, from the person I grew up to be. We differ in our faith, as well as our perceptions of the world and how it functions. These can be chalked up to generational differences. The most important rift is that concerning health, fitness and nutrition.

Can't remember if I have discussed this here, but a brief synopsis would be that I adhere (as best I can) to a tradition of fitness and nutrition that I feel will increase my productive years, help maintain mental stability, clean my colon of debris, and generally make me a more pleasant person to be around. I strive to stay away from manufactured chemicals that are being passed off as health remedies, in particular antibiotics. I won't force my lifestyle on you, but I will expound at length at the slightest provocation.

In light of this, my mother and I have been working on my Grandparents for several years to convince them that these dietary changes will not only help them lose weight (sorely needed. Grandma's hips span a yard), but will act to reverse the symptoms of mature onset diabetes (which they both have), can only be helpful in reversing Grand-daddy's heart disease (for which he has had two multiple bypass surgeries and countless arteriograms), and could certainly aid in Grandma's staggering diverticular erosions for which she is now in her third visit to grand old Mother Frances.

All of that withstanding, the continued hospitals visits, hemorhages, calls in the night, and unexpected visits to East Texas are beginning to take their toll. All of this preventable if she would exercise (just get out of the Barcalounger), and quit eating white bread. However, she, phobically afraid of doctors, surgery and all things medical, repeatedly tortures herself with ambulance rides, countless needle sticks and threats of colonectomies if she doesn't get her act together. We, her family, agonize over these incidents wishing we knew that magic combination of words to tell her so that she would stop slowly killing herself.

I want to be as loving and supportive as I possibly can, yet I am resigned to being ignored and feeling helpless in the wake of her obstinacy. I love her so immensely and I loathe her for her willful negligence.

Maybe the husbands, wives, children, and grandchildren of heavy chronic smokers feel this way.