A Lesson In Cleanliness

“They should make this stuff for little kids,” I said, squeezing the royal purple shampoo into my hands. It was called the One ‘N’ Only Shiny Silver Ultra Shampoo, specially formulated for bringing the silver shimmer back into your gray. It was old folks’ shampoo, specially formulated for little blue-haired ladies. Of course, my grandmother no longer had blue hair, in fact, she had scarcely enough to run a comb through, and what was left was a stringy white that had to be foam-rolled and plastered upright with canned glue hairspray in order to look like hair at all.
“I bet kids wouldn’t put up such a fight to take a bath if they got to use purple shampoo,” I said, trying to sound pleasant despite the knot in my throat. My grandmother didn’t say anything, and I immediately regretted my attempt at conversation, for certainly she must have thought that I was comparing her to a child. Or was she thinking anything at all, her naked, withering body curled over the detachable shower head in her hands? I couldn’t tell. My eyes wandered to the half-finished pack of Depends at the base of the toilet as I massaged the purple gel into her scalp. She shivered underneath me and I turned on the box heater at our feet.
Her Alzheimer’s had advanced quickly in the past year, but not quickly enough. She was losing her mind and body functions, but the serious injury was that she was not so far gone as not to realize what was happening. She woke up every morning terrified of death, scraped up enough dignity to fret over my grandfather and comment on how he was going to work himself to death (actually, a fairly rational observation), and then sat in front of the television all day apologizing to her sitters, myself in this case, for being such a bore. Sometimes, like that day, she would not make it to her handicapped toilet in time, and I would find her in tears, face in hands, the soiled Depends fallen down to her ankles. I would act like it was no big deal, like it happened to all of us. I would wisk away her diaper, convince her that now would be a perfect time to take a shower, and try to ignore her despair that would take the heart of me if I let it.
The knowledge of my grandmother that I accumulated those few times when I gave her a shower during my Christmas break, amounted to my twenty years worth of observation. Her normal sitter, Michelle, was on a three-week vacation, and so I came in her stead. That day was the first, and I fought back nausea while undressing and bathing this woman who had been a tower of strength in my childhood. A door was closing, and she was moving through it. I rinsed the purple bubbles out of her hair, watching the suds slide down the curve of her back.
“That water feels good,” she said.
“Is it warm enough?” She lifted her head and dabbed at her face with a washcloth as I moved the stream of water up and down her back and around her shoulders, careful to avoid getting it in her eyes.
“Yes, it’s just fine.” In truth, it was barely luke-warm. After lifting her onto her bathtub bench earlier, I had checked the water with my hands like I would for a baby’s bath, and then I had her test it with her feet. It had been too hot.
I lathered up her washcloth with Dial and let her wash, but while pretending to be busy with the hand towels by the sink, I let myself watch her. Her small, decaying body gave away any secrets that she might have been hiding. In her sagging breasts, with the nipples sticking out like wine corks like only ones that have nursed six babies will do, the story of her womanhood told itself, of sleepless nights and frantic days, a fearful loving. Her belly was round and pregnant-looking while her limbs had hardly enough meat on them to stretch over her bones, a clear sign of the malnourishment that she tried so hard to deny. She had somehow sustained life on salted cashews and lemon poppy seed muffins. My mother had given me hints before I started about how to get her eat, to make her grilled cheese and beef broth to remind her of her childhood. With her hair wet and clinging to her scull, I noticed the shape of her head for the first time and it looked too small for her broad shoulders. Her neck was warped downward so she could not have held her head high even if she had wanted to. She didn’t want to.
Her legs were dry and flaking after I dried her off, so I helped her into her bathrobe and guided her walker into the bedroom where I convinced her to let me put lotion on her legs and feet. Squatting down, I was keenly aware of the tight pull in my thighs and calves, and I felt at once grateful and ashamed. As I held her small foot in my hands, caressing the insoles and kneading gently at the bones, I felt what Mary Magdelene must have felt when washing Jesus’ feet. This was as much I could give to her now. I closed my eyes and tried to move energy through my fingertips into her diminishing muscles, wanting to give her my strength, my youth. I became aware of her hand running through my hair, and I looked up, and though I searched her eyes, I couldn’t get inside.
“You are going to break your back down there,” she said, almost cold. She turned her head away and stared out the window at the birdfeeder, “Are you going to hurt your back?”
“No, ma’am, my back is just fine,” I said, running my hands up and down her limp calves.
“I don’t want you to hurt your back.” I stood up slowly, and wiped my hands off on my jeans. I wanted to sit down beside her and put my head in her lap like I had as a little girl. I wanted to say something wise and careful, tending to the delicate state of her spirit. I wanted to erase the memory of her nakedness from my mind. But I could do none of these things. She was too far away.