My Granny makes herself breakfast with the same faithfulness of the sunrise. Sausage and biscuits one day. Bacon and toast with hash browns the next. Alternating coffee and cranberry juice based on her tastebuds’ demands. Sometimes I make her pancakes. That’s usually when her back or hip interferes with her ability to stand for long. She rarely admits when she’s in pain, though. She just tells me she has a taste for pancakes and I take my cue.

Each morning she sits in the same spot at the head of the worn wooden table. She stares out the window to her left as she eats and comments on the weather, noting snowflakes or sunshine as appropriate. She posits that it’s cold or windy. She repeats what the weather person said. I ask how she’s feeling, to which she responds, “I’m pretty good for an old lady.” We chit chat about whatever was on the news the night before or replay a conversation she finds amusing. When she’s finished eating, I clear her plate and cup and napkin and start cleaning the kitchen. Around this time I hear her pills rattle as she turns over the case to examine each day’s contents.

“Is today Wednesday,” she asks. 

“Yes ma’am,” I reply.

“I thought it was,” she responds.

A few months ago, before I moved into my Granny’s home, I never could have pictured her this way. She was so witty. She talked in rhymes to make a point, then laughed at her own silliness. Once, I commented on how ashy she was and she responded, “Well, nobody’s worried about my legs. They just throw ‘em out the way anyway.” We both fell out in tears. She puts up a good front on the phone, but she can’t hide from the truth now that I live here.

“How many pills am I s’posed to take?”

“Five in the morning. Three at night.”

“Oh, that’s right. It used to be more. I could start a pharmacy.”

I chuckle politely knowing I’ll have to laugh at this joke again soon.

She dumps the array of white and pink pills onto the table and spreads them out, gently poking each one around until she’s satisfied with its place. Then, she takes them, one at a time, always saving Big Bertha for last. There’s Renexa for her heart. Plavix for her heart. Losartan and Metroprolol for her blood pressure and kidneys. And Big Bertha, the biggest, dusty, coating-less pill for Potassium. 

At night the routine will be the same: Sit down to eat. Comment on the weather. Dump the pills on the table and poke them into place. Ask me to confirm the day. And I’ll push back the sadness I feel to reconfirm that today is indeed Wednesday.

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