POMORSKA STREET. SARA APPLEBAUM

to you about her condition? I saw that he gave her a new prescription. “Did you go in with her when she saw the doctor?”

      Mom’s response is a little testy. “She’s an adult, of course I didn’t go in with her!”

      “Grandma seemed a little forgetful tonight. Have you noticed anything like that lately?”

      She sighs and says, “She’s eighty years old, Clara. What do you expect?”

      “So she has been forgetful for a while then? It’s not just since the hospitalization?”

      Mom is a bit agitated and seems unsure. “I don’t know, maybe a little more than usual”, she answers.

      “Mom, when you take her for her next check up, I think you should speak to the doctor about the forgetfulness. Maybe it’s related to the stent. I think you should talk to him. Just because she’s eighty, it doesn’t mean it couldn’t be something else beside her age, and please let me know what he says.”

      “A fine time for you to go gallivanting around the world!” my mother accuses.

      That pretty much matches my own thoughts so I don’t reply. I try to comfort my mother with, “It’s probably nothing.” I end the conversation and pull back into traffic and head for home.

      Grandma’s been lucky with her health and been able to maintain her independence so far. Is it about to change? Some forgetfulness at eighty is not unusual but I worry that it might be something else. Maybe more than one thing is going on.

      I wonder if her doctor would talk to me. With strict patient privacy laws, he probably won’t. I wish I weren’t leaving so soon; I’d try to get grandma to let me go with her the next time she sees the doctor. I’ll have to rely on mom.

      ****

      Jan drops by and I remember that her grandfather passed away recently and I seem to recall that he’d had a stroke. I broach the subject of my grandmother and the stent she recently had put in and the worry that there could be complications.

      She tells me that her grandfather had surgery for an aneurysm and something happened during surgery. He almost died, but they managed to save him. Unfortunately he then had a massive stroke and died a few weeks later. The story is of no comfort to me.

      I clean up a few dishes and go to check my Email. There is one from Mr. Walenski. He advises that I bring proof of my relation to my grandmother and a letter from her that gives me permission to access information about her.

      He has attached such a statement, in Polish and English, for grandma Sal to sign and suggests I have it notarized as soon as possible. It will simplify our visits to the Archives.

      It has something to do with a Polish privacy laws. In order to access information less than a hundred years old, you have to prove you have a legal right to do so.

      I should probably locate my birth certificate too.

      I search my mind for a person I know who is a Notary Public and who would be willing to do me the favor of coming to my grandmother’s place to get this done. Maybe I could ask one of the paralegals from Martin and Jones. I’ve done quite a bit of work for their law firm.

      If that doesn’t work out, I’ll take grandma to the bank where the Safety Deposit Box is, if she’s up to it. They’re sure to have a Notary on duty. In fact the bank may be better. Grandma may like a short outing.

      I reply to Walenski’s Email, thank him and update him as to my flight information and expected time of arrival at the Warsaw airport. He said that he, or his son Albert, will pick me up and take me to the hotel.

      While I’m at it, I send Rudy my departure information. He said he wants to take me to L.A.X. and it should work out because I’m taking a late flight.

      I go back to various websites with information about stents and surgery results and risks. It leaves me in a state of unease.

      I check my bank account on line and pay a few bills, including those that will come due during my absence. I’ve put a hold on my mail at the post office. I’ve given Jan an extra key to my place in case of emergency and make a note to myself to shut off the water to my place.

      A friend of mine had a flood in her house because of the failure of a two or three dollar part in her toilet tank. It was a mess! They had to take the place down to the studs because of the mold and gunk that resulted from the leak.

      I try to anticipate all that I need to, but what troubles me most is my grandmother’s condition. I can’t do anything about that.

      I think about the kind of woman she is, so self-reliant, independent and gutsy. What were the years like before she made it to America? I wonder how she managed it, young and alone.

      What is so important that she must accomplish it, or make it right, before she dies? What guilt is she still carrying around that she has to make up for it after all these years?

      Is it guilt that she survived and others didn’t?

      Is it something more, something that she was forced to do by her circumstances, something she had to do to survive, I ask myself.

      I’m amazed that we never talked about these things. She never volunteered the information and I didn’t ask. I’ve been absorbed with myself, and nothing much beyond myself, and my work. I’m not happy about that.

      I hope there’s still time; that she can see her quest achieved. It seems to matter immensely to her, and therefore it matters to me.