Grandmother Plays with Our Nerves: A Feigned Illness or a Cry for Help?
My name is Catherine. I am 37, married, with a mother aged 56 and a grandmother—Grandma Vera—who is 85. We live in a small town in Yorkshire, where winters are harsh, and the distances between houses feel endless, especially when you’re racing down snow-covered roads in the dead of night.
Grandma Vera, despite her years, stubbornly lives alone in an old cottage on the edge of town. She flatly refuses to move in with my mother, though the offer of comfort and care has been made countless times. She insists her home is her castle, and no one will drag her from it. But lately, her loneliness seems unbearable, and she’s found a way to keep us all on edge.
She’s taken to calling my mother and me nearly every day, voice trembling down the line, claiming she’s “ever so poorly.” She moans, says her “heart’s playing up” or her “legs won’t hold her.” We drop everything, fists clenched with dread, and rush to her—only to find her, as if by magic, perfectly revived. There she is, bustling about the house, offering tea with jam, even cracking jokes. And we stand there, bewildered, hearts hammering, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
We’re weary of this game. Each call jolts us like a shock, yet we can’t simply dismiss it. What if this time it’s real? What if we don’t go, and the worst happens? The thought gnaws at us, refusing to let go. We fear if we ignore her cries, we’d never forgive ourselves should something happen.
It started a year ago. I remember racing to her cottage at four in the morning through a blizzard, barely dressed—me in an old jumper, Mother in her dressing gown under a coat. We expected to find her on death’s door, but there she was, smiling, saying her “blood pressure just took a turn.” Within half an hour, she was fetching her famous raspberry jam from the cupboard, urging us to sit. We were stunned but chalked it up to chance.
We tried to make sense of it. Pleaded with her to see a doctor, but she scoffed, insisting “those quacks just want your money.” So we brought one to her. He examined her, checked her pulse, listened to her heart, and declared her remarkably fit for her age. “What she needs is company,” he said, glancing at us. “Visit more often, and the calls will stop.” How wrong he was.
We already try our best. I live an hour away; Mother is closer, but after work, through traffic and exhaustion, daily visits are impossible. Weekends we take turns—I bring groceries and stay for tea; Mother comes to help clean. On holidays, we arrive together, bearing gifts and flowers to cheer her. Yet it’s never enough. She wants more—our attention, our nerves, our time.
Mother has offered to take her in a dozen times, even prepared her best room. But Grandma won’t budge. “I won’t be a burden,” she insists—then rings us at midnight, voice frail. “I’d rather die in my own home.” The words cut deep, but what can we do?
We’ve begged her not to call unless it’s truly urgent. Explained how each false alarm steals sleep, frays nerves. But she doesn’t listen—or won’t. The calls keep coming, and each time, we’re trapped: go or stay? Ignore or answer? We dread making the wrong choice, missing the moment she really needs us.
Sometimes I wonder if she’s just lonely. If she aches for warmth, conversation, laughter. Maybe these calls are her desperate bid to keep us close. But why choose such a cruel way? Why make us live in fear? I don’t know the answer. We love her, but this game wears us thin. And yet—as long as she calls, we’ll go. Because if we don’t, and the worst happens, the guilt would crush us forever.
