teaching my grandmother how to breathe
As I sat next to my bonus grandmother, she complained about her blood pressure pills and how they were not working for her. "My doctor needs to change my prescription." Sometimes she thinks someone has put roots on her. "My pressure ain't never been this bad before." I try to tell her that it's age, not roots because if someone did try to put roots on her, they have failed horribly since she is almost 100 years old.
I witness how much aging scares her. I wonder if it will surprise me as well? She speaks of aging as if it were a thief in the night. Does aging always feel like an omen? She has now placed all her faith in the pill. She asks me to take her pressure. The number is high. "Um hm, I knew it was high." She looks defeated. She is shrinking in front of me.
I ask if I can teach her something. She has never meditated before so I do not call it meditation. "I want us to practice breathing together."
"Chile, leave me alone. You crazy! Where your momma get you from?"
She proceeds to tell me about those dang pills, or the roots—is it a neighbor or her home health aide? “The girl is doing it. I need to get someone new.” She continues with her rant to include the doctor who messed up her eye, or maybe she needs to get a candle. The line between medicines seem to blur the older she gets because I do not remember her ever speaking about candles when I was a girl. Still, she never speaks about her body. All of her tools are outside of herself.
"Come on! Let us practice breathing together!" She just looks at me annoyed. I try to tickle her. Frustrated by my silliness, but also more open because of it, she surrenders. I ask her to close her eyes. "Take a deep breath." Her chest slightly expands and then flattens. Every inhale and exhale cycle is shallow and feels like a panic breath. In between each cycle she mutters, "Chile, what you got me doing?"
I place my hand on her belly. "I need you to breathe into my hand. Go deeper." She struggles, but the hand laying on her belly shifts slightly. "Again." This is the first time in all my years I notice her shallow breath. "Again." I wonder how many times she has held her breath in these nine decades in America. "Again." I then place her hand on my belly and take the deepest breath I could muster. I look bloated. I exhale slowly. "You feel that? Let's try again." I return my hand to her belly and it raises up more. "Again." We stay in this rhythm until I feel her tire of me.
I ask for her arm to take her blood pressure again. The number has gone down. "See? You have medicine inside of you. Your medicine is your breath. Your medicine is your depth."
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