Naturally there’s a fucking conchigliette in my shoe! Those were the last words of Mom this morning before she slammed the door on her way to rehearsal. Grandma said, That’s a family classic, Swiv, write that down. Then Grandma shouted, Good luck! Have fun! Don’t work too hard! She says that every single time a person leaves. She says that where she’s from it’s the most subversive thing you can say because they didn’t believe in luck and fun was a sin and work was the only thing you were supposed to do. Almost every day Mom finds a conchigliette in her shoe or stuck to her script or somewhere else. It’s Grandma’s favourite food but when her arthritis is bad it’s hard for her to open the box and then when she finally gets it open the conchigliettes fly everywhere and I sweep them up but not very well because Mom always finds them in her stuff. The conchigliettes go into everybody’s stuff but Mom is the one who freaks out about it. Grandma loves them because they’re small and if she’s having one of her trigeminal neuralgia days she doesn’t even have to chew them, they just slither down her throat. Grandma is trying to find someone who will drill a hole in her head because she’s heard that’s the most effective way of getting rid of trigeminal neuralgia, which is nicknamed the suicide disease because it’s the most painful physical experience a human being can have and you just want to kill yourself. But nobody wants to drill a hole into Grandma’s head because of her age. They stop drilling holes into people at around age sixty. Remember that, Swiv! Grandma said.
After Mom left, Grandma asked me to write a list of her medications. Not in cursive, she said, print it out. None of those young ambulance drivers can read cursive, they think it’s Arabic, they’re just tap tap tap all day on their cameras. She means phones. I can’t read your old cursive either, I told her. She read the medications out loud to me so I could print them out.
Amlodipine 7.5 mg OD
Lisinopril 10 mg OD
Furosemide 20 mg OD
Pravastatin 20 mg OD
Colchicine .6 mg OD
Omeprazole 20 mg OD
Metoprolol 50 mg b.i.d.
Oxcarbazepine 300 mg OD
It’s funny that it says “OD” after every drug, I said.
That’s my back-up plan, she said. Just pulling your leg. She said it means One a Day.
What’s b.i.d.?
Bis in Die, she said. It’s Latin for twice a day. Grandma used to be a nurse. She got hazed by the older nurses in her first week of being a nurse. They threw her into a stainless steel tub and poured ether all over her until she began to pass out and freeze to death. She begged them to stop. She thinks this is one of the funniest things that’s ever happened to her. She organizes her pills into little groups, one of each, and puts them into the days of the week in her plastic pill box. Grandma says she has to keep doing this and not ever get so confused that she has to go to the bubble pack system, which costs money, so forget it. When she drops pills on the floor accidentally, if she notices she drops them, she says, Bombs away, Swiv! When I hear her say that, I come running and drop down onto the floor and scramble around by her feet picking them up and also picking up hearing aid batteries and conchigliettes and pieces from her Amish farm puzzle.
Today Grandma finally remembered I was supposed to be in school even though I’d already been home for fifty-nine days. Why aren’t you in school? she asked. I didn’t say anything because she sounded like a cop and she never answers their questions so why should I. Fighting? said Grandma. I didn’t move. Then I did what Grandma does when the cops come, which is she holds up an imaginary cellphone like she’s recording them. She said she already knew it must be about fighting because I kept coming home with dried blood on my face and bruises on my neck and tufts of hair ripped out of my head and my jacket missing an arm. Then we were quiet for a long, long time, just sitting there making small noises, not words. I put my fake phone on the table with a big swooping gesture like I was doing her a favour by not recording her anymore. I smashed breadcrumbs on the tablecloth with my thumb. Grandma shook her pill case a few times and lined up her mouse and pad and laptop in a straight row. I watched her fingers moving around on the table. Her nails needed clipping again. I couldn’t remember where I’d left the nail clipper. I looked at her face. She was smiling.
I’m glad you’re here with me, she said.
Madame said I had one too many fights, which if I knew the exact number of fights I was supposed to have then there wouldn’t be this bullshit, I said.
Hmmmmmmmm, said Grandma.