by Deborah Adelman

Grasping For The Remote

February, 1968. I am 10 years old, sitting with my dying grandmother in her bedroom, watching television. My parents haven’t actually told us that Grammy Florence is dying, but my sisters and I know she is really, really ill, and not getting any better. Grammy’s had surgery, lost a breast, been in and out of the hospital. She’s weak and in pain. She spends most of her time in her big, comfortable bed, and since she doesn’t read or write well enough to enjoy it, she mostly watches TV. She has a remote control so she can turn it off without getting out of bed, something that is becoming increasingly difficult for her to do.

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