Growing up, my paternal grandpa is my best friend. My parents like to tell the story that we were linked the second he held me in his arms; he saw my tiny face with my little peanut nose, and from that moment on, he only ever called me Peanut… unless I was in trouble, of course. 

My grandpa put me on my first horse, and he taught me how to change my oil and check my tire pressure, bait a hook and catch a fish, and shoot a BB gun — much to my parents’ disdain. He was at every softball game and every musical, choir, and band performance I had. He was my biggest fan, always encouraging me to go the extra mile and celebrating every step of the way.

I’m in my mid-thirties now and he’s nearing ninety. His health has been declining for several years now, but this year, 2020, has been especially rough. He often gets confused, thinking my dad is his brother or thinking it’s the 1990s and that we need to get ready for the big snowstorm coming in.

I go home one day in June for the first time since the health crisis began and see that his home care nurse is there. My grandma is in the kitchen with my parents, waiting for the nurse to finish dressing him so he can sit in the living room.

I stand in the doorway, not sure if I am really up for seeing my grandpa in such a dissociative state; my mental health has really taken a hit with everything going on and, standing in the doorway, I debate if coming home was a good idea.

The bedroom door opens and Grandpa comes out with his walker, focusing on the floor.

Nurse: “That’s it, [Grandpa], one step at a time. Don’t you feel better now?”

My grandpa speaks in a tone that shows he doesn’t mean it.

Grandpa: “Uh-huh…”

The nurse looks up at the table.

Nurse: “Oh, you have company! Who’s here today?”

Grandpa: “Um…”

He looks from my mom to my grandma, confused.

Nurse: “It’s okay; take your time. Who do you see?”

My grandpa looks to my dad.

Grandpa: “I see [My Uncle].”

Nurse: “Well, they do look alike but I think that’s [My Dad].”

Grandpa: “Okay.”

Nurse: “Who else? Who is that by the door?”

Grandpa looks at me for a second or two and then smiles.

Grandpa: “Hi, Peanut!”

Me: *Trying not to cry* “Hi, Grandpa.”

I haven’t seen him much these past few months, but I’m hoping to be able to go home and see him again soon.

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This happened back in the late 1970s. My family had a TV in the living room. This was back when TVs were analog, with lots of mechanical switches and dials to control the channel, volume, and, most importantly for this story, the picture.

This particular TV had “Hue” and “Color” sliders. The mechanism in one of them was either dirty or faulty and the color would randomly go out. We found out pretty quickly that tapping the TV on the top would vibrate the slider enough that the color would come back. And soon after that, we found that stomping our feet on the floor had the same effect, but we didn’t need to leave the comfort of our seats.

One evening, a friend of my brother’s stopped by to pick him up. As he was standing in the living room making small talk with me, my mom, my dad, and my sister, the color on the TV went out. Cue a few seconds of furious stomping of feet by everyone before the conversation returned to normal.

The friend later asked my brother why his family suddenly started stomping their feet during the small talk. After my brother stopped laughing, he explained that it wasn’t personal; that’s just how we fix the TV.

My sister is pregnant with her first child and the subject of names comes up. I’m using fake names, but the real ones are similarly bad together.

Sister: “We were thinking we’d name him after his grandfathers, Leonardo and Harold, so Leonaharold.”

Me: “Not Leonardo Harold?”

Sister: “No, one word — Leonaharold. “

Me: *Faking excitement* “Oh! Just like Renesmee! From the Twilight books!”

Sister: “What?”

Me: “Yeah, that’s exactly how they named Renesmee! You’re going to have a little Twilight baby!”

Sister: “That’s not why I’m naming him that!”

The next couple of times I talked with her, I asked how my little “Twilight” nephew or my little Renesmee nephew was doing. By the time he was born, she had decided that maybe Leonardo Harold was a better choice after all. Your aunt’s looking out for you, kid.

This story is part of the Struggles With Names roundup!

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This story is part of our July 2020 Roundup – the best stories of the month!

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CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

I’m a doctor working at the surgical emergency ward on a calm Saturday afternoon when a very large woman is brought in via ambulance. I’m wrapping up my last case at the computer but can hear her wailing from behind her curtain; we, unfortunately, don’t have separate rooms.

Another surgeon is with her within minutes.

Doctor: “All right, I’ve heard you called an ambulance for abdominal pain. Have you experienced similar symptoms before?”

Patient: “No! Help! Please, do something!”

Doctor: “Sure, give me just a minute. I need to find out the cause of your pain first to give you the right medication. Could you describe your symptoms a bit more in detail?”

Patient: “I have these cramps. They started early this morning and keep getting worse! Sometimes it’s a bit better but it keeps coming back! Oh, please do something!”

The doctor puts a hand on her belly, frowns, and then looks at her sharply.

Doctor: “Ma’am, is it possible that you’re pregnant?”

Patient: “Aaauuuugh! Ah… No… I don’t think so? I didn’t get my period for some time due to stress…”

The doctor motions for a nurse to get him an ultrasound.

Doctor: “Ma’am, when was your last period?”

Patient: *Winces* “I don’t know? Some months ago… December? No, earlier, I think.”

The nurse comes back with the ultrasound and the doctor finishes his examination. When he puts the probe on her belly…

Doctor: “Wow. I don’t usually get to see this, but it’s quite clear. See here? This is a head, and there’s the spine. With the periodic contractions you’re describing, I’m fairly sure you’re in labour.”

Patient: “What?! No! I can’t!”

Doctor: “Oh. I’m sorry; it seems I was wrong.”

Patient: “Praise the Lord. Don’t scare me like that!”

Doctor: “Sorry, that’s not what I meant. There’s another head. It’s twins.” *To the nurse* “Please inform the gynecologists and call a transport to get her to the labour room.”

Patient: “Noooooooooooo!” *Screams unintelligibly*

Not even half an hour later, we got a call from the gynecologists. It was two healthy babies, seemingly on term, and which blood tests did we already order?

I’m glad they were delivered safely and healthily, but judging by their mom’s reaction to her pregnancy… I can’t help but worry for their future.

A few years ago, my mother, younger brother, and I lived with my great-grandmother while we were between houses. We would sit with her in the living room and read or watch television so that she wasn’t lonely. Her son who had lived with her had died, and she needed someone to “take care of.” We would cook her meals and clean the house.

Her daughter, Mary, lived next door. This woman was the passive-aggressive mother from sitcoms. She would come over and make snippy comments about lint on the floor or crumbs on the tablecloths.

One day, she started cursing me out because the blanket on the back of the couch was crooked. She would vacuum and sweep every time she came over and loudly boast about all the polishing, waxing, laundry, and mopping she had done at her house that day.

My brother and I are half-siblings — same mother, different fathers — so she would tell stories about meeting someone at church like, “She’s one of those kinds of women, you know? Where her kids have different last names than her.”

Once, her three-year-old grandson called me the N-word, only to be shushed by his father, and she would complain about “Messicans” that lived up the road. I put up with it because I loved my Granny and knew that she wasn’t going to be around much longer, as she was in her mid-nineties at the time.

My grandfather, one of Granny’s sons and Mary’s brother, handled her money. He left on a trip and went grocery shopping before he left. Four or five days after he left, Mary came over at nine in the morning and started b****ing and banging things around. “This table looks like there’s been a kindergarten class here!” Then, she opened the fridge. “You don’t have no milk at all? [My Grandfather] had a hunnerd dollars of grocery money but he didn’t get you no d*** groceries!”

Remember: my grandfather had gone shopping almost a week before this, and, with four people in the house, the jug was understandably near-empty.

Fed up, I stormed into the kitchen. “It’s. Just. Milk. You don’t have to scream at the top of your lungs! I’m done putting up with you!” I left the room with her telling me, “Your a** can go to h***!”

My mother called my grandfather and basically told him that his sister had lost her d*** mind and that he needed to come home. While we were packing, she found Mary in the kitchen and told her that we were taking care of her mother, when she lived thirty steps away, and that she had no right to insult me the way she had for the past year.

Mary started banging a broom handle on the kitchen table, beginning to brag about times she had bought Granny apple juice or chicken dinners, “at my expense! at my expense!” in an effort to change the subject.

Mary, if you or anyone in your family ever reads this, f*** you. F*** your racist, homophobic, xenophobic, bigoted child and grandchildren. I am so much more than any of you will ever be.