The capacity to cry

Steven called me a little earlier today. Told me to go pick up my grandmother. She was on the floor crying. She didn't want my parents to know. Is she ashamed, or embarrassed, or scared? I'm not really sure which emotion motivated her to shun my parents' help, albeit temporarily, but regardless, I went upstairs to help.

She was on the floor in a kind of half sitting half lying down posture. I think it took all her strength to get that far upright. She was holding the phone. It was making that constant "beep beep" noise of a receiver too long off its cradle. I feel like I haven't heard that noise in ages, since cell phones lack it. She was crying, lightly. I took the phone from her hand and replaced it on the base. I lifted her up and placed her on the bed. She cried harder when I helped her. She said something, said a lot of things, and a lot I had to help her finish with. Words on the tip of her tongue. I could guess from context until she nodded in affirmation. I helped her pull her clothes on correctly, got her under a blanket, and held her in the bed. It sounds cliche, but that scene from the book we all had as kids. "Love You Forever" by Robert Munsch. The scene at the end.

One thing I could make out clearly. She said to me, through tears, "I just wanna die." Something is so heartbreaking about your first grandchild helping you dress and cradling you, that she cried harder. I understand that distress. I cannot fathom it in feeling, but I understand it.

Her bones are brittle and break often. Her muscles are weak. Her skin is too pliable. Nerve damage from an old surgery robbed her of some nerve connections, so her weakened state is brought to further levels of immobility. She's having trouble finding words and names. But despite everything that is failing or has already failed, her eyes are wise and witty and alive and delicate. And she can cry with the strength of anyone on earth. It is cruel that we can continue to cry, even after we cannot remember why were doing it anymore.