Grandma is playing with our nerves: a simulation of illness or a cry for help?
My name is Katherine. I’m 37, married, with a mother who’s 56 and a grandmother—Vera—who’s 85. We live in a small town in the Yorkshire Dales, where winters bite hard and the distances between houses feel endless, especially when you’re racing down icy roads in the dead of night.
Grandma Vera, despite her age, stubbornly lives alone in an old stone cottage on the outskirts of town. She flatly refuses to move in with Mum, though she’s been offered comfort and care more times than I can count. Grandma insists her cottage is her castle, and no one will drag her from its familiar walls. But lately, her loneliness seems unbearable, and she’s found a way to keep us all on edge.
She’s started ringing Mum and me nearly every day, her voice trembling down the line, insisting she feels “dreadfully poorly.” She groans, complains of “a stitch in her chest” or that her “legs won’t hold her.” Mum and I drop everything, hearts pounding, and tear over to her, only to find the same scene every time: Grandma, miraculously revived, bustling about the house, offering tea and jam, even cracking jokes. And there we stand, bewildered, our pulses still racing, unsure whether to laugh or scream.
We’re exhausted by this game. Every call jolts us like an electric shock, yet we can’t just ignore it. What if this time it’s real? What if we don’t go, and something terrible happens? The thought gnaws at us, refusing to let go. We’re terrified that if we dismiss her cries, we’ll never forgive ourselves.
It all began a year ago. I remember Mum and I rushing over at four in the morning through a blizzard, barely dressed—me in a ratty jumper, Mum in an old coat thrown over her pyjamas. We expected to find Grandma on death’s doorstep, but there she was, grinning, claiming it was “just a bit of a dodgy spell.” Half an hour later, she was fetching her famous blackberry jam, urging us to sit down. We were stunned, but back then, we chalked it up to a one-off.
We tried to make sense of it. Begged Grandma to see a doctor, but she waved us off, muttering about “quacks just after your money.” So we brought a doctor to her. He checked her over, listened to her heart, and declared her perfectly healthy for her age. “She needs more company,” he added, glancing at Mum and me. “Visit her more often, and the calls will stop.” Oh, how wrong he was.
We already try to give her time. I live an hour’s drive away; Mum’s closer, but after work, stuck in traffic and knackered, it’s impossible to visit daily. Weekends are shared—sometimes I bring groceries and stay for tea; sometimes Mum pops by to tidy up. On holidays, we always visit together, bearing gifts and flowers. But it’s never enough. She wants more—our attention, our nerves, our time.
Mum’s offered her the best room in her house a hundred times, ready to dote on her, but Grandma won’t budge. “I won’t be a burden,” she says, right before ringing us at midnight to wail about her aches. “I’d rather die in my own home.” Words that cut like a knife. But what can we do?
We’ve begged Grandma not to call unless it’s serious. Explained that every false alarm is stress, lost sleep, sheer dread. But she doesn’t listen—or won’t. The calls keep coming, and each time, we’re trapped: go or stay? Ignore or believe? We’re scared of getting it wrong, of missing the moment she truly needs us.
Sometimes I wonder if she’s just lonely. Craving warmth, chatter, laughter. Maybe these calls are her desperate bid to keep us close. But why this cruel method? Why make us live in fear? I don’t know the answer. We love her, but her game drains us. And yet, as long as she rings, we’ll go. Because if we don’t, and something happens… the guilt would crush us forever.
