Declining Into More

By Emily Wheeler

Before drug abuse left her father-in-law afflicted with dementia, Emily Wheeler already knew the troubles of the human decline having grown up around her Grandma Anna. Emily cherished opportunities to support her grandmother through the aging process because of the special bond they shared. However, absorbing the responsibility to care for her father-in-law years later, a man who'd been a disloyal, absent father, came with more hesitation. Declining into More reveals the complex burdens and tender rewards associated with caregiving and what is given and taken when sacrificing for another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781639859832

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter 1: My Pavilion

Chapter 2: Secret Language

Chapter 3: Imitation

Chapter 4: Lifejackets and Sandbags

Chapter 5: Somewhere, My Love

Chapter 6: Days of Estimation

Chapter 7: The Crucible of Moving

Chapter 8: Thank You for Being Mine

Chapter 9: Still Standing

Part 2

Chapter 10: Introductions and Reintroductions

Chapter 11: Titles Given, Titles Received

Chapter 12: Transfer of Power

Chapter 13: Iron Sharpened by Iron

Chapter 14: Balcony Seat

Chapter 15: No More Tickets

Chapter 16: The Power of Shadows

Chapter 17: Swan Song

Chapter 18: The Last Warmth of Fall

Part 3

Chapter 19: Slipping beneath the Surface

Chapter 20: Coffee before Suckers

Chapter 21: The Flux of Pain

Chapter 22: Falling Dominos

Chapter 23: The Burden of Mystery

Chapter 24: More

About the Author

cover.jpg

Declining Into More

Emily Wheeler

Copyright © 2022 Emily Wheeler

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2022

ISBN 978-1-63985-982-5 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63985-983-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

For all caregivers.

Listen to songs inspired by Declining into More by downloading the album, Into More, featuring the author's band, Cider Wave, on Apple Music, Spotify, or Amazon.

Prologue

Don't worry. I'm coming for you. She'd said the words only once. But I instantly converted them into a sacred mantra, replaying—dozens of times—what I'd heard as a shamanistic promise.

Don't worry. I'm coming for you.

My nose pushed against the front doors until my breath's vapors fogged the glass. With a quick swipe, I cleared the pane, giving myself a good view of the parking lot; I didn't want to miss her arrival.

She drove a bulky Impala the color of split pea soup. Something about that car reminded me of a hippo packing around heaps of metal.

Don't worry. I'm coming for you.

She'd given me only one assurance. But I instantly milked the faultless message, hearing my salvation's complete plan.

Don't worry. I'm coming for you.

I'd never left school early before. Angie, my curly-headed friend in first grade, had left one time after throwing up all over her desk. I'd felt bad for her when she left our classroom, not because of sympathy for her illness, but because I loved school and never wanted to leave; I assumed she must have felt the same. When she got permission to call her mom for a ride home, I didn't understand why relief—not disappointment—covered her face.

I understood now.

The sickness tightened in my stomach like a cobra coiling, threatening a strike. The saliva rushing my mouth was strong venom.

Don't worry. I'm coming for you.

The attack didn't come before she did; it wasn't more than three minutes after my office phone call that she berthed her car in a parking spot that wasn't so much a parking spot as much as it was the closest slab of concrete to the school's doors.

Don't worry. I'm coming for you.

I never once considered that the tables might turn one day. That I might be the one showing up, the one offering help, the one giving care. I never once considered that her caregiver example might precipitate my own efforts with the role.

Part 1

If you haven't the strength to impose your own terms upon life, then you must accept the terms it offers you.

—TS Eliot

Chapter 1

My Pavilion

I opened my empty suitcase even though there wasn't much point in packing. Part of me wanted to feed the valise with my belongings as if filling some treasure chest. Yet I understood the silliness of such a notion—my treasure wasn't here; it was at my destination. I'd fill the case later. Before clamping the buckle shut, I decided to at least throw in my nightgown.

My parents had given me the suitcase as a Christmas present. The red, hard-shelled exterior supported an interior lined with flowered fabric. The front displayed a sketched image of a girl in a yellow coat walking in front of a white picket fence. She carried her own suitcase in one arm and a teddy bear in the other. Her long ponytail looked like mine, except her hair was black, and mine was so blond it was nearly white. Factual words printed near the handle made clear the suitcase's purpose: going to Grandma's.

I ran to the kitchen where a pineapple-yellow phone clung to the wall. My small fingers pried the phone from the receiver.

I didn't know how to recite any phone numbers other than my own yet, but I had dialed this number enough times with Mom's help that I'd memorized the pattern: over, up, back, down and across, up and across, and return to the starting point.

It rang only twice before someone picked up.

Hello, said a voice as familiar as my own. It was as familiar as my own, but opposite. My four-year-old voice projected high-pitched, bubbly sounds; this voice, seasoned with age, came out gruff and strong.

Grandma! I squealed.

Emily!

Her instant recognition validated my feelings of importance, so I didn't waste time getting to the point. Can I sleep at your house tonight?

Grandma never saw my self-invites as overreaching; her rules of etiquette permitted such intrusive behaviors. She said, That'd be perfect!

I spoke with total self-assurance, Okay, I'll be there soon.

Grandma and I both said, I love you, before hanging up.

Securing a Grandma sleepover always felt like a victory, even if I didn't have to fight hard for it.

I ran to my room and grabbed the suitcase from my bed, thinking about the treasures—goodies from Grandma's house—that'd soon transform my luggage into the chest I'd fantasized about earlier.

I placed my suitcase by the front door where Mom could see it, hoping to catch her up to speed. For a second, I worried I'd violated some chain of command—maybe I should've talked with Mom first about the sleepover. But I wasn't worried. Mom rarely said no to Grandma sleepovers.

*****

The mind is a powerful curator that organizes and showcases memory, helping our eyes see the present with the influence of the past.

Though she's been dead for years, I still see my grandma Anna in something every day—a lot of things. I suspect my eyes will always work this way; it's at least what I hope. Remembering Grandma is remembering myself—my identity, my purpose.

My other grandma, Grandma Bonnie, died a month before my oldest brother turned four, so my siblings and I didn't use distinguishing names for two grandmothers. We referred to Grandma Anna with one succinct title: Grandma.

I saw Grandma as a pavilion. Pavilions don't move; they are firmly fixed in one location with one objective: help those within reach. You can walk away from the safety of a pavilion's cover, and it lets you. But it's always there waiting for you to return, ready to suffer the elements—whatever those elements might be—to keep you safe.

Grandma birthed three children, two sons and a daughter—my mom. Since Mom hadn't wanted to move far from her roots while raising her own children, she and Dad bought a house only one block away from Grandma's. I spent so much time at Grandma's house that I didn't separate the two in my mind, believing her house to be a beautiful extension of my own. I never knocked to enter; you don't knock at your own home.

When Grandpa died—four months after my fifth birthday—Grandma grew especially willing to let me sleep over, saying my visits assuaged her loneliness. That's when she turned Grandpa's old lounging room into a guest room—a room I used more than anyone else—and made space for a few of my things in her bathroom. I liked the pink toothbrush she kept in her medicine cabinet just for me.

Probably a lot of people would have described Grandma as tough, and she was, but not in the way she loved me. Grandma didn't force or threaten me into becoming myself; she loved me with a tenderness that proved, in time, lifesaving.

*****

I'm here! My announcement swept through the house as I pushed open Grandma's back door. Her front porch led to a respectable front door, but I rarely appeared through that formal entry. A long driveway ran along the entire south side of her modest yellow-brick house, from front to back, making it easy to park near either her front or back doors. My parents preferred dropping me off at the back.

Once inside, I denied cold air entrance by slamming the door shut. I kicked off my snow boots in the laundry room, unconcerned with the slushy mess pooling on the ground.

Grandma's voice carried from the television room, In here!

I yelled back, Okay!

If conversation is an art, then Grandma and I worked as minimalists.

I centered my face in Grandma's laundry-room window and waved at Dad who'd dropped me off. My wave passed along a coded message: I made it in. Everything's okay. I found Grandma. He waved back, then drove off to work. Dad worked as a professor at the local university. Mom found employment as a substitute teacher. When both parents worked, I spent the day with Grandma.

This visit wouldn't turn into one of my many sleepovers; Mom had told me she'd pick me up after school let out.

I shed my winter coat and walked through Grandma's kitchen, crossing her colorfully speckled linoleum floor. My cheeks, rosy from the outside chill, started warming.

The kitchen swelled with the aroma of chocolate chip cookies, the perfect smell for a winter's morning or any morning, really.

Grandma regularly baked and stored leftover cookies in an old, plastic ice-cream bucket. She hid that sacred bucket in her kitchen pantry, a location well-known by all her grandchildren. I noted the fresh cookies organized in straight lines on a dishtowel covering the kitchen counter; I'd request one after getting my greeting hug.

Winter snow had savagely consumed the land in our northern Utah valley overnight. The fluffy moisture sat on the landscape playing with the sun's morning light, throwing sparkles in all directions. The arrival of such weather thrilled my young heart and knocked my energy up several notches.

It snowed! I shouted the news while bouncing into Grandma's television room. Grandma, rocking in her chair, smiled and stretched open her arms. I threw myself into her lap. She covered me with dry kisses, a ritual I happily tolerated and reciprocated.

Grandma said, Come. Get under my wing. She loved saying that, comparing herself to a mother hen. Growing up in rural America meant she had an endless supply of farm analogies and metaphors. I curled up under her arm, enjoying the warmth of her body and shawl.

I described the snow outside as if she hadn't already noticed it while opening her sheer drapes in the early-morning hours. We talked excitedly for a few seconds before my nose reminded me of an important question.

Smells good, Grandma. Can I have one? I didn't worry about Grandma refusing me a cookie; she served them at all hours, even with breakfast.

She fixed her face with a serious expression and then laid down the rules, You can have just one…well, maybe two. She couldn't keep up the I'm-a-strict-grandma act with me, something she seemed to have no trouble doing with everyone else. Okay, no more than three. We both giggled at her bending rules.

I ate four cookies before we headed back to her television room.

After Grandpa died, Grandma developed a habit of leaving the television on almost all day. I think the constant sound helped her feel less alone. She'd turn the television to AMC during morning hours hoping to watch old westerns, especially ones with John Wayne. At twelve o'clock, she'd change the channel to watch the news; then she'd watch three hours of soap operas, something she did with unwavering devotion.

I spent the morning the same way every visit: I'd play checkers with Grandma while the old westerns aired and dig into her paper, marker, and supply drawers to complete craft projects, projects she'd insist proved my genius; then I'd explore a toy compartment in a window seat built beneath three large windows in her television room. House plants typically covered the window seat's lid, but Grandma moved them when I wanted to play.

On this day, I sat on top of the toy compartment after lunch, staring out the windows at the inviting snow. I desperately wanted to go outside but wasn't sure I should ask. Grandma suffered from arthritis, and on days when the weather was particularly harsh, it affected her more. The recent snowstorm had brought me magical wonder, but for Grandma, it'd brought torturous aches. I knew if I went outside, Grandma would follow, wanting to keep an eye on me; and since I questioned if her body could handle the cold, asking to leave the warm house seemed impolite.

After Grandma finished washing the lunch dishes, she settled into her rocking chair. She rubbed her legs with determined aggression as if she was rubbing flint and steel together, trying to start a fire that would burn up her discomfort. The sounds of her rocking and rubbing composed a soothing ostinato that droned until becoming white noise I no longer noticed. Her composition only caught my attention a second time when it abruptly stopped.

Grandma stood. Let's grab our coats and boots.

What are we going to do? I grinned with curiosity. I liked what the words coats and boots implied.

I guess we better go out and enjoy the snow before any of it melts. I eagerly nodded my approval even though I knew the cold stiffened her joints with pain; my childish heart wanted to claim outdoor fun more than it wanted to worry about another's well-being.

I retrieved and dressed in my winter clothes, then sat, and watched Grandma prepare. She moved slower than me, her preparation took longer, but I didn't mind…too much. I watched weathered boots swallow her feet and admired her black, fake-fur coat as she fastened the buttons. The outmoded coat reminded me of lavish clothes worn by famous actresses in the black-and-white movies we'd watch together. She let me run my hand through the sleek fur; it felt even softer than it looked.

With Grandma in front and me close behind, we stepped into her backyard, the cold zapping our faces and thickening our skin.

Grandma had a well-groomed backyard that looked even bigger under snow and two large fields: one that extended east beyond her backyard and another south of her driveway.

When it wasn't winter, Grandma let local horse owners pasture their animals in her fields free of charge. She'd say the owners were doing her a favor since their horses ate down the field grass, but I suspected she understood the significant favor in her offer.

She'd let me feed the horses apples and sugar cubes, a responsibility that left me feeling like part-owner. I loved her horses. I knew they technically didn't belong to her, but I considered them hers, anyway.

Grandma inspected the snow and then made a proposal, Let's play Fox and Geese.

What's that? I asked.

Grandma then explained the basic rules that sounded a lot like tag. She told me she'd be the fox and chase me, the goose. But first, she needed to create the track for our play.

I modeled snowballs while Grandma dramatically marched through the snow, sculpting a maze with her stomping feet. Once satisfied with the created course, she announced the beginning of the game with a count down, Three, two, one, go!

I stepped onto the packed snow, and Grandma chased after me. My breath danced into the air as I raced around the track. We giggled, sending our silly laughter into the atmosphere. After a couple attempts, Grandma tagged me. My turn. I chased her.

Together, we spent the afternoon laughing, running inelegantly toward and away from each other, and experiencing winter.

I loved her for it—for noticing my unspoken desire to play in the snow and for the willingness to be my partner.

When sacrifice is given because of love, the noblest of people find ways to love giving the sacrifice. I can't imagine Grandma's legs, afflicted with arthritic pain, felt well as she chased and ran from me, but her smile never fell from her face and the sparkle in her eyes never dulled. It was a day she joyfully sacrificed her own comfort to gift me with giggles and a lasting memory.

As mentioned, I loved her for it.

Chapter 2

Secret Language

Mom spent the summer months before my first-grade year preparing for a leap into professional living. She'd been a stay-at-home mom with my three older siblings, and though she'd stayed home with me in my earliest years, she started working more frequently as a substitute teacher after my fourth birthday.

Subbing gave Mom a chance to try out a teaching career. As it turned out, she had quite a knack for education—she connected well with students, disciplined effectively, and instinctively grew others. Her organized, overachieving ways were a real asset in the classroom. She had a preference for teaching reading and writing, so it was with enthusiasm she accepted an offer to teach sixth-grade language arts.

I heard conversations echoing through our home prior to Mom's employment, conversations with words like money and bills; but my young, naive mind hadn't assigned much meaning to those terms. What I understood was basic: Mom was going to work; she had a lot to do to get her lesson plans ready; and art supplies popped up in our house whenever she worked on classroom decorations.

Mom planned to read Wilson Rawls' Summer of the Monkeys to her class. A related project had her attention when I walked into her room.

What're you doing? I asked, then sprawled out on her bed so I could oversee her work. She sat on the carpet with poster paper and markers in hand.

Making decorations for a bulletin board, she explained.

I had a good view of the top of Mom's head. Her hair was as black as a crow. She wore it short and spiky. Whenever seriousness settled upon her, Mom's brow furrowed, and two vertical lines took over her forehead. For years, I'd thought it was her mad face until she'd enlightened me, saying, It's not my mad face. It's my thinking face.

I took one look at her as she pulled off a marker lid and instantly recognized her facial expression. She was thinking.

I loved creating my own art pieces and thought if I played my cards right, I'd be able to claim leftover materials.

What's the decoration gonna be?

Mom described her project: she was making a tree on which her students could hang fake dollars. I hadn't read Summer of the Monkeys, so I didn't appreciate the concept.

Because I hadn't read the book, I hadn't learned its lessons about growing up, having faith, and sacrificing for others. I hadn't read its tale about the bond between grandparent and grandchild or how the story might relate to my life one day. But I liked markers, so I stayed and watched Mom finish the tree.

*****

The sun sliced through developing clouds while summer air carried smells of cut grass and dairy cows. Irrigation sprinklers in nearby fields spat water with an aggressive rhythm, watering crops with an urgent beat that almost matched the fluttering of hummingbird wings. Summer had visited our valley and settled in as the dominant season; the land showcased the impact: the sun's heat browned the mountainsides, garden vegetables stretched to appetizing sizes, and river levels dropped, denuding parched banks.

Let's go on a walk, Grandma said. Her words interrupted my play, counting and chasing rainbows cast about by her window prism.

Grandma had a magical way of coating even the most ordinary ideas with a veneer of greatness; on all occasions, I saw her simple plans as unveiled adventure. Okay, I agreed.

As soon as she made the suggestion, I was ready to go; but Grandma required more preparation, as always. She changed from her house shoes to her walking sneakers. Recently, Grandma had started experimenting with a cane here and there, as if auditioning it for some grave season of life. She'd limp with it on days when debilitating arthritis limited her walking. I wondered if she'd grab it today. When I saw her head toward the door hands-free, I knew that her arthritis wasn't bothering her much and that our walk would be spirited and long.

We approached Grandma's front curb where our walking path started and heard the minor swell of traffic. Grandma lived next to a highway that, though always somewhat active, only ever really crowded with commuters during morning and evening hours. I figured our walk would be serenaded by just a few passing vehicles since it was less than an hour after lunchtime, at least five hours before the next big traffic surge.

Grandma took my hand. We strolled down the path swinging our arms and enjoying comfortable silence—the only kind we knew together. We passed two of her neighbors' homes before Grandma broke the silence to teach me a lasting lesson.

Do you know what this means? Her eyes twinkled as if she'd discovered some great wonder. She lifted my hand playfully, magnetizing my attention. Theatrically, but gently, she squeezed my hand three times.

No, I confessed. Admitting a lack of understanding with Grandma never made you feel small—she never used greater knowledge to gloat in her advantage.

Well, it's special, she said, allowing cheery, jumping facial expressions to punctuate her comment. She squeezed my hand again with similar choreography. One, two, three squeezes mean I love you. Charmed by this new, deft communication, I quickly replied with my own three squeezes.

We continued walking, our pendulum hands sending quiet messages of love back and forth—three squeezes from Grandma, followed by my three squeezes, the unspoken conversation unfolding again and again. I reveled in our new Morse code, our secret language.

At home, I lived in the shadows of three older siblings. Being the youngest meant I usually felt somehow beneath everyone else. My voice hadn't grown strong yet like others in the family. I'd listen to family conversations about social issues, pop culture, or life decisions and feel unable to contribute because of my youth and my lack of experience. In those moments, I melted into the background, listening until daydreams became more entertaining. It never took long.

I noticed that Grandma usually remained silent, too, in these family conversations, rarely interjecting ideas that advanced the topic. Perhaps she felt unqualified to contribute—she'd had limited schooling and wasn't one to intellectualize about much. Perhaps she felt too qualified—her wisdom surpassed anyone's in