A Ladder, a Litter Box, and Nana

One Christmas when I was a teenager—eighth grade, specifically—I was grounded. I don't remember what I had done, which probably means it either wasn't very important or there were enough possibilities that I can't narrow it down. Let's be honest, it was probably the latter—pun intended. What I do remember is that Nana was coming over. My mom was decorating our Christmas tree—before Thanksgiving—which was about 12 feet tall and required a very long extension ladder to reach the top. Before Nana arrived, Mom and I had been joking about what she'd say when she walked in. We were pretty sure it would be something along the lines of: "It looks like the Fantasy of Trees in here." That was the kind of thing Nana would say. The joking didn't last long. My mom was near the top of the ladder when she looked around and realized there were still dishes in the kitchen sink. "You need to go wash those dishes before Nana gets here and says something about them." I pointed out one small problem. Granddad had specifically told me I needed to hold the ladder. That was the stipulation for the ladder loan. Mom knew this. "Yeah, he'll be so mad at me. Just don't tell him." So, being the obedient grounded teenager that I was—some may say suck-up—I abandoned my post and went to wash the dishes. A few minutes later: "OH ****!" Then came the thudding. I ran out of the kitchen and saw the ladder sliding down the wall. My mom was still on it. Riding it, actually. Her body was almost seated on one of the rungs, her hands gripping the sides, while her head repeatedly bounced against the wall on the way down like some kind of human jackhammer. Eventually, the ladder hit the couch. The sections of it shot forward into the entertainment center, and my mom came down with her head landing in the cat litter box, which had busted apart from the impact. Cat turds and specks of clay mixed with all the glitter from the ornaments. Looking back, this was obviously horrible. Teenage me, however, was grounded. So I would be lying if I said there wasn't one very brief moment when I stood there thinking something along the lines of: Well. Granddad did tell me to hold the ladder. I did eventually manage to ask, "Are you okay?" This was not a particularly productive question. I asked if she wanted me to call someone. She said no. Nana would be there soon. She only lived about ten minutes down the road and was already on her way. Mom got herself up and said she thought she might have broken her wrist. I suggested we go to the hospital. She decided she wanted to wait. Then Nana arrived. We explained what had happened. By this point, Mom was being pretty tough about the whole thing, and somehow we were even laughing as we showed Nana the destroyed litter box and reconstructed the scene for her. Nana took it all in. My mother had just ridden a ladder down a wall, crashed into the furniture, landed headfirst in a litter box, and possibly broken her wrist. Naturally, Nana had an urgent concern. The cats. Were the cats okay? And, perhaps more importantly, where were they supposed to use the bathroom now? Nana loved cats. Really, she loved animals in general. And once she realized that the litter box had been destroyed, this apparently became a problem that could not wait. Luckily, we had opened all the blinds before her arrival so the cats could see outside from every room. Otherwise, I'm sure that would have needed addressing too. Writing this now, I wonder if Mom encouraged our departure because she needed some time to decompress—as if she hadn't just had plenty of time to decompress on our newly installed, and immediately collapsed, indoor roller coaster. So Nana and I went to Walmart. For years, I had actually forgotten that part of the story. I remembered the ladder. I remembered the crash. I definitely remembered my mom's head landing in the litter box. I even remembered drawing a picture to explain the accident to Nana, which my mother later made me use as a diagram for a Facebook video about it. But recently, Mom reminded me about the Walmart trip, and suddenly I could see it again. Nana and me walking across the parking lot. Going all the way to the back of the store. Looking at litter boxes. While my mom stayed home—continuing to decorate the tree, showering, crying, who knows, possibly with a broken wrist—Nana carefully considered the available options. Enclosed ones. High-sided ones. Whatever features apparently separate an acceptable litter box from an unacceptable one. All things litter boxes. And I should probably clarify something. We had four cats. The destroyed litter box was not their only litter box. We still had two or three perfectly functional ones at home. This did not matter to Nana. Being down one litter box was apparently an unacceptable disruption to the cats' standard of living. Problem identified. Mom wasn't going to the E.R., so Nana found another way to help. Off to Walmart. Mom eventually went to the hospital a few days later. She was perched on a gurney in the hallway because they were so busy. Her wrist was, in fact, broken. But the cats had a new litter box that night. I've thought about that story differently as I've gotten older. For years, it was mostly the story about the time my mom fell off a ladder and landed in a litter box. And to be fair, that's still a pretty good story. I still laugh out loud to myself whenever I think about it. But now I also see Nana in it. She walked into chaos and immediately started taking inventory of who—or what—needed something. Mom was standing. She was talking. She was insisting she was okay. The cats, on the other hand, were down one litter box. Problem identified. She found a way to help. It was such a Nana response: practical, deeply concerned, slightly ridiculous, and completely sincere. She loved by noticing what needed to be done and then doing it. Sometimes that meant sitting at a computer late at night trying to help her lost freshman grandchild navigate a college campus. Sometimes it meant sitting through endless swim meets. And apparently, sometimes it meant looking at your daughter with a possibly broken wrist and deciding that what this family really needed right now was a trip to Walmart for a litter box. As far as I can remember, Nana never said a word about the dishes in the sink. Maybe that's what Mom was doing while we ventured down the hill. And because apparently our family hadn't generated enough medical drama for one holiday season, a few days after Thanksgiving I ended up in the hospital myself with a ruptured appendix. I stayed there for 12 days. Nana, of course, became one of my regulars on the floor. The tree had barely made it through Thanksgiving. Mom had a broken wrist. I had a ruptured appendix. The cats, however, had their full complement of litter boxes. What a month.