Growing up, concepts like “truth” and “reality” were somewhat fluid in my family. My grandmother, my mother’s mother, had always been blind in my eyes. She walked with a retractable cane, read braille, and enjoyed books on tape. I remember a silver cube that resembled a wireless speaker; pressing a button prompted a booming voice to announce the time.
During my early childhood, I relished visits to Grandma’s apartment. I would run my fingers over her braille books and admire her collection of tiny knick-knacks, like miniature Coca-Cola bottles and Sprite cups that seemed perfect for a dollhouse.
Her apartment felt like a time capsule. The musty, warm smell brought comfort; a basket in the corner held blue mohair yarn, while fake autumn flowers added cheer to the white walls. I spent hours with old photographs and cherished Mickey Mouse sketches from her brother, who had worked on “Fantasia.” They were among the few remnants of a family history that contradicted the notion that we were just “good for nothing.”
We grew up in poverty, and my mother often reminded us of her struggles in school, where she was labeled “welfare trash” by teachers. She warned us that we would face similar treatment if others knew we relied on government assistance. Life with her was serious—everything felt like a matter of life or death. Grandma’s place, however, was a sanctuary. With a railroad pension, she had more financial flexibility and could indulge in special groceries from Schwan’s, including my favorite mandarin oranges and spiced apple rings.
Grandma adored me when I was little, and being with her was a joy, but there were shadows lurking. Before visiting Grandma, our mother would coach us on what to say and not say. We were often told to hide the fact that we knew Grandma wasn’t truly blind.
Despite everyone believing she was blind, we were aware it was all an act. It was a bizarre upbringing for a child to witness their grandmother adopt blindness as if it were a hobby. As time passed, her apartment filled with new aids for the visually impaired, yet we held onto the truth—Grandma was merely pretending.
She never explained how she “went blind,” and her claims varied from total blindness to being “legally” blind, able to see well enough to compliment our dresses or spot a bus two blocks away. One day, she tried on my mother’s new prescription glasses and declared they improved her sight at home. Though my mother disliked the frames, she allowed Grandma to keep them; however, in public, Grandma always reverted to her dark sunglasses.
Keeping up with our family secret felt strange, especially in church, where Grandma would showcase her feigned blindness—groping for door handles, eliciting sympathy from others. She thrived on the attention.
Looking back, it’s unfortunate that my mother encouraged this facade. She often recounted how Grandma pretended to have a serious heart condition during her senior year of high school, prompting a web of lies that even involved foster parents. My mother confided in me about her feelings of betrayal upon discovering Grandma’s deceit, revealing that her mother enjoyed the attention illness brought her since childhood.
By the time I entered third grade, Grandma claimed she was paralyzed as well. My mother innocently suggested a wheelchair, thinking it would help. However, Grandma’s mobility issues stemmed from ill-fitting shoes and untrimmed toenails. Her doctor, an elderly man, approved the wheelchair request without question, and soon after, Grandma stopped walking in front of us.
At church, she would dramatically lament her inability to walk, garnering sympathy and prayers for a miracle. As I grew older, I felt mortified by her antics but also ashamed of my embarrassment. Did people really believe she was an invalid? Everyone appeared to be fooled.
When we visited her apartment, we could hear her shuffling to her wheelchair, fully aware that she could still walk. Yet, she relished being the long-suffering patient. Her attention-seeking behavior seemed to be her greatest treasure, and we were compelled to ignore the elephant in the room, discussing it only in private.
Grandma could never clearly articulate why she needed a wheelchair. Sometimes, she cited childhood polio, but her explanations were inconsistent. Despite our awareness of the truth, no one dared to challenge her narratives.
“She’s such a sweet old woman,” people would say, unaware that Grandma was not looking for a miracle; she just enjoyed pretending to be ill. She never dropped her act of blindness or paralysis, even when requesting a motorized scooter.
If I found her previous actions embarrassing, nothing prepared me for her transformation with the scooter. Unlike the cheerful grandparents in electric wheelchair commercials, Grandma’s demeanor screamed “move aside.” While she maintained a façade of the frail, long-suffering elderly woman, she became unapologetic about running into people.
By high school, I dreaded shopping trips with her, constantly on edge to avoid collisions. Grandma constructed a narrative of irresponsibility, using her claimed disabilities as excuses for her actions. Ironically, she had no issue locating items in stores, proving she could navigate despite her supposed limitations.
In my early twenties, after college and a brief marriage, I returned to spending time with my mother and grandmother. My mother expressed frustration with Grandma’s self-induced ailments, particularly the swelling in her legs that would lead to infections and hospitalizations. Grandma fell into a repetitive cycle that drove my mother mad.
When I was 25, Grandma was once again admitted to the county hospital. For the first time, doctors began questioning her medical history. They met with my mother and me to discuss their concerns about her wheelchair and blindness. My mother revealed the truth about Grandma’s penchant for pretending to be ill.
The doctors suggested that it might be a case of Münchausen syndrome and recommended a move to the psychiatric ward. Although that didn’t happen, they proposed surgery to address her lumbar spinal stenosis, aiming to get her walking again.
Through all of this, I was shocked by Grandma’s behavior. She had grown increasingly disrespectful to the hospital staff. I finally spoke up, whispering to her that she couldn’t treat people that way. My mother urged me to be more understanding, but I felt her age didn’t justify her behavior.
Eventually, Grandma’s attitude alienated her from her church friends as they began to suspect her health issues. I watched as the web of her lies unraveled, leaving me questioning the foundations of our family.
For more information on home insemination and related topics, check out this resource, or visit womenshealth.gov for excellent insights on pregnancy and home insemination. You can also learn more about the medical aspects at intracervicalinsemination.com.
Search queries:
- home insemination tips
- self insemination methods
- how to use a home insemination kit
- pregnancy tips for single mothers
- understanding home insemination
In summary, my upbringing was shaped by the peculiarities of my grandmother’s façade of blindness and illness. While her actions brought both embarrassment and confusion, they ultimately revealed a deeper family dynamic that was steeped in deception and attention-seeking behavior.