I Grew Up with a Grandmother Who Pretended to Be Blind

Growing up, concepts like truth and reality were rather fluid in my family. For as long as I can recall, my grandmother, my mother’s mother, was perceived as blind. She navigated her world with a folding cane, read braille, and enjoyed audiobooks. I remember this peculiar silver device that resembled a small wireless speaker; pressing its button would reveal the time in a booming voice.

During my early childhood, visiting Grandma’s apartment was a delight. I loved exploring her collection of braille books and admiring the tiny knick-knacks that adorned her walls—miniature Coca-Cola bottles and Sprite cups that could have fit perfectly in a dollhouse.

Her apartment felt like a time capsule, filled with musty warmth. In one corner, a basket overflowed with blue mohair yarn, while artificial flowers brightened the white walls. I would lose myself in old photographs and the Mickey Mouse sketches from her brother, who had worked on “Fantasia.” The few sketches that survived over the years were cherished, a reminder that our family was more than just “good for nothing” losers.

We grew up in poverty, and my mother often reminded us of her own hardships in school, where she was ridiculed as “welfare trash.” She warned us that revealing our dependence on government aid would invite the same treatment. Life with her was always serious—everything felt like a life-or-death matter. In contrast, Grandma’s home felt like a refuge. With a railroad pension, she had a bit more financial freedom, often treating me to my favorite snacks like mandarin orange segments and spiced apple rings.

Though I enjoyed Grandma’s attention and affection, there were underlying shadows in our family dynamic. Prior to our visits, Mom would coach my sister and me on what to say and what to hide. Most notably, we were instructed to pretend we didn’t know that Grandma wasn’t genuinely blind. While everyone else viewed her as a blind woman, we were aware that it was an act.

It was a peculiar situation for a child—to watch our grandmother adopt blindness as a sort of hobby. Over the years, her apartment filled with tools for the visually impaired, yet we were all too aware of the truth. Grandma was merely pretending. She could never explain how she lost her sight, and her claims shifted between total blindness and being “legally” blind enough to comment on our outfits or see a bus approaching from down the street.

One day, she picked up a pair of my mother’s old prescription glasses and claimed they improved her vision at home. My mother disliked the frames, so she allowed Grandma to keep them. Yet, in public, Grandma reverted to her dark sunglasses, maintaining the facade.

Keeping this family secret felt strange. At church, she put on a grand performance, fumbling around as if she couldn’t find the door handle. People rushed to assist her, and she thrived on the attention. Looking back, it’s regrettable that my mother encouraged us to maintain the ruse. Mom often confided in us about Grandma’s earlier deceptions, like when she pretended to have a bad heart during Mom’s senior year in high school.

Mom felt betrayed when she discovered Grandma’s fabrications. According to her, Grandma reveled in the attention that came with illness, a habit that began after her childhood polio. Even after recovering, she craved the sympathy that came from pretending to be sick.

By third grade, Grandma’s charade expanded beyond blindness; she claimed to be paralyzed too. It was my mom who suggested the wheelchair, thinking it would help Grandma who seemed to be struggling to walk. Unfortunately, it turned out that her mobility issues stemmed from simply wearing shoes that were too small. Yet, the doctor readily approved the request, and soon Grandma stopped walking in front of us altogether.

She’d attend church, dramatically lamenting her inability to walk, often in tears, while assuring everyone she was praying for a miracle. I spent my teenage years grappling with embarrassment and confusion as I watched her play the part of the invalid, all while knowing the truth. She would scramble to her wheelchair whenever we knocked on her door, fully immersed in her role as the long-suffering patient.

The sympathy she received seemed to be her most prized possession, and we were never allowed to confront the reality of her situation. When she visited the doctor, she would offer vague explanations for her ailments, claiming they were a result of her childhood polio. Yet, nobody challenged her, and everyone continued to pray for her supposed recovery.

As I grew older and began spending more time with my family, I noticed Grandma’s habits grow increasingly troubling. My mother expressed frustration over Grandma’s tendency to “make herself sick,” leading to repeated hospitalizations. Eventually, Grandma developed a severe case of c. diff colitis, and during her hospitalization, doctors began questioning her medical history.

They called my mother and me into a conference room, where they raised concerns about her ailments. After an hour of discussion, one doctor suggested it seemed like a case of Munchausen syndrome. Though they didn’t move her to a psychiatric ward, they recommended surgery to help her walk again.

What struck me most was how mean Grandma had become, showing little respect for the staff attending to her. I eventually felt compelled to speak up, reminding her to treat people kindly. My mother, too, began urging me to be more compassionate, despite Grandma’s poor treatment of others.

Ultimately, Grandma’s behavior cost her dearly. She lost friends at church as people began to question her health claims. The cycle of deception continued, showcasing a complex web of familial love, shame, and the need for attention.

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Summary

This narrative explores the complex relationship I had with my grandmother, who pretended to be blind and later paralyzed. Our family’s struggles with poverty and deception shaped my childhood experiences, as we navigated the intricate web of her lies. Despite the facade, Grandma craved attention, leading to a cycle of manipulation that left a lasting mark on our lives.

Keyphrase: Grandmother pretending to be blind

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