Potatoes

My family and I visit India every summer. Not just for my parents to see their homeland, but also so my brother and I can create memories with my grandparents. So, like every year, we visited India last summer. But unlike every year, my grandma’s Parkinson’s was more evident than ever.

For as long as I can remember, she has been facing Parkinson’s disease. But she would still speak with me, still eat well, still laugh. But that summer, she had what my uncle called her “on” and “off” moments, where she is either as alert as ever, or unresponsive and unaffected by anything around her. Spoiler alert, she’s mostly in the “off” stage. My grandma had Parkinson’s disease for over 25 years, and that summer she could barely stay alert or recognize me. But whenever she’s “on,” she acts like she normally does, happy, engaging, fun. But whether she’s “on” or “off,” I always smile at her, say hi, and touch her shoulder every time I pass. And one morning I did this, getting ready to pass her on my way to play with my cousin. But this time, she turned, she smiled. She was back.

I stopped, not wanting to go play with my cousin now. This was the first time that summer that she was “on” when I was there, and I wanted to spend these moments with her. My family was having trouble making her eat, as her motor functions were so taken over by Parkinson’s that it was difficult for her to open her mouth or swallow. When my grandfather saw she was alert, he handed me a plate of idlis, round steamed rice cakes, so I could feed her. These moments were precious, because Parkinson’s is still such a mystery that we have no idea when she will become “on” again, so she should eat.

I pulled a chair, and began breaking down the idlis, to make them easy to eat, as my grandma and I talked. She asked me about school, how long I’m staying in India, my hobbies. I told her all about them, including my garden back home. For some reason, I’m still not sure why, she took interest in it. We talked all about the plants I grew there: tomatoes, hibiscus, mint, lemon, potatoes. “Potatoes?” she asked. “Yeah, potatoes. They grow very well and very fast, and taste good too.” I told her. She asked me more questions while I fed her bits of idli in between. With each bite of idli I gave her, I felt a burst of warmth within me. I was aware of my brother and cousin playing on the verandah, but I didn’t want to leave, I was having too much fun. My grandma and I laughed, ate, talked about potatoes. We had been sitting there for so long that she ended up finishing all the idlis, and I began to give her tea and cookies. At one point, she slowly lost her alertness, shifting to “off” mode. I felt tears fill my eyes, but I was smiling.

Throughout the rest of my vacation, I wasn’t able to share any moments that were as precious as this one. What I didn’t realize until later was that this was the last time I could ever share any memories with her. She is getting more sick day by day from Parkinson’s, and I don’t think many people know how it feels for those around Parkinson’s patients every day; their hope, care, and connection with another person relying on those “on” moments.

Even when I called my grandfather after that summer, he said whenever my grandma was alert she would tell him and anyone else around to plant potatoes, about how “fast and well they would grow,” more than 9 months later from that vacation.

The day after my grandma passed away, I planted a potato.