Sometimes, I hate my grandmother even though I know that’s wrong

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My grandmother is a strong, caring, individual who has been through an adventure movie of a life. From growing up in Korea under Japanese reign to immigrating to Canada with four kids, and eventually moving in with her son’s family after her husband died. Memories of my childhood are filled with scenes of my halmoni: her scent, her soft cotton sleeves and her call from a distant room beckoning my brothers and me to the dinner table. She has been a stable, constant presence in my 18 years of life.

But I hate my grandma.

I don’t want to hate my grandma, but I do. Why does my skin itch with rage when she reminds me to shut the blinds for the 12th time like it isn’t already a common practice in our household? Why do my fists twitch and muscles tense when she tries to do a task by herself, refusing the help of others? Why – when she fainted on New Year’s Day, sliding off the kitchen chair like a bag of bones – was I so quiet?

After multiple calls to the ambulance and her hospitalization, I realized I needed to sort out my feelings. The turbulent emotions I felt were valid – unsorted, confusing, even shocking – but valid.

Did I really hate her? Did I really want her gone? If that was true: Why then was I so scared when the ambulance took her away and not relieved?

As I have gotten older, so has everyone else. Sometimes I forget that. Halmoni isn’t the same person she was 10 years ago. She too has aged. She isn’t the woman in my memories who was always out for evening strolls; happy and healthy. She no long has the bright face and strong voice that was eager to grab an empty pail to fill with blackberries from neighbouring bushes. It’s hard for her to even walk up and down the stairs, to stay balanced, to remember my name. She talks about her body like it’s a pile of spare parts she wishes she could replace.

Seeing my grandma like this breaks my heart. Even more so when I realize and understand and feel and hear and see with my own eyes that she cares so much for me. And yet I treat her like a stranger, like someone I don’t want to be around.

She’s always here, she’s always home, she’s always been right here. But now her leaving is becoming too real. She could slip, or fall, break her wrist or hit her head.

She could die.

And then what would I do?

I love her so much.

I love her so much that when I see her stumble, my mind races with a million thoughts of what could happen.

Death is manifesting itself as glaucoma in her eyes, memory loss in her brain and stumbles in her steps.

It scares me. And revealing my deepest fears and exposing the darkest part of my shadow: the part of me that fears being seen as useless or impractical, the part of me that doesn’t really understand death because it is an unknown that I can’t prepare myself for. Now that my façade is faltering, the reality of who I really am is breaking through.

So, what do I do to deal with this fear and this revelation?

I glare, I groan, I ignore, I yell, I passively show my aggression by the way I set down my spoon and chopsticks on the kitchen table. I make sure she sees my anger and frustration.

I know. It’s sick. My halmoni is my blood, and should be respected and cherished.

But my instincts don’t know how to cope in a helpful way.

Or maybe I’m just saying that as an excuse to cover up the fact that I am too scared to show my love. That I don’t feel like I deserve to hug her because I have already hurt her too much. If I love her and she dies, where will that love go? So, I have to hate her. Because when the day comes and the casket goes six feet deep, I’ll have to rip out my heart and bury it with her because by then it will have no use.

I have to try and show that I love her.

Even though it’s scary and even though I know, later, it will hurt. Because the facts are that she’s 81, in declining health, and has a hard time believing that she’ll be able to get healthier before she dies. I don’t have much time to thank her, hug her, appreciate her, accept her and let her take care of me. Although she can’t do as much as she used to, she still holds firm on the idea that she has to take care of me and my brothers. And even though her actions and words feel belittling, I have to let her set the table for me, I have to let her call my little brother 10 times to come down and eat with the entire family because that is what she can do. I have to help her empower herself; I have to let it happen.

Because I love her.

Theresa Choi lives in Vancouver.