My grandmother strove for perfection, convinced that it was an attainable goal if only you worked hard enough.
This meant eating less to lose weight. Food deprivation became a family bonding activity when my grandmother was on a diet. Diets lasted decades. We had marathon cleaning weekends while friends went to the mall. Play clothes were swapped out for school clothes for our rare trips to Burger King. Random dust checks were performed to ensure vacuuming of floors was done correctly. I’ll never forget her finger with a perfectly manicured nail grazing the cool Italian tile floor. Chore lists graced our refrigerator in the same way my friends’ quizzes and pictures graced theirs.
My grandmother wanted and demanded order, believing it led to perfection. My childhood was spent trying to please. She did not expect more from us than she did from herself, though. I hold many memories of Gram chastising herself for her too-big thighs or her less-than-stellar self-control around chocolate. It was a weakness that caused her significant guilt.
I followed her steps
Years later, as I began my own journey toward motherhood, I vowed that my children would not endure what I had. I would allow them to make messes. That dog I always wanted, but was never allowed to have because pets were dirty, would complete the large family I also always wanted. Perfection would become what it was meant to be, a foolish ideal — not a reality to strive for at all costs.
Instead, I repeated exactly what I knew. My kids had to have matching outfits, picture-perfect Christmas cards, and all the things perfection required. I would clean and exercise until I reached the point of exhaustion. I worked out through all four pregnancies and directly after.
I recall throwing a birthday party for my son. He was turning 3 or 4. Someone commented on how great I looked. “Nicole makes sure everything is always perfect,” someone else said. I reveled in the praise. Gram heard the comment and smiled. We shared a common bond. When one of us inched closer to it, the other one felt proud.
Then my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer
The exhaustion of parenting four kids and attempting to create the perfect world for them and me was intense. I was stuck in a cycle. It would not break until one sunny fall day. I was running around attempting to clean and wrangle the kids for lunch. The plan was to work out after they took their naps. The phone rang, and my grandmother greeted me on the other end. All I heard was the word sick. I assumed it was regarding my grandfather, who had had heart problems for decades. I thought perhaps it was another heart attack.
“No, baby, it’s me. I’m sick.” It was shocking. Gram had lived a life of such order and perfection. She was in her 70s and active. She took only one pill for high blood pressure. Gram had Stage 4 ovarian cancer, which meant we discovered it late. We looked up the statistical odds of survival. My grandmother had a terminal illness.
The diagnosis changed her. For the first time, her constant need for perfection seemed foolish. Weight didn’t matter, nor did matching a purse to shoes to a blouse. When Gram lost her hair, one of her most beautiful features, and found herself struggling to keep the house clean, she understood things had to change. Maybe a wig wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe hiring someone to come in and help was OK. Her new favorite saying became, “Don’t sweat it.” What mattered was time and how she spent it.
She asked 1 simple question
When she saw me working myself to death to provide a perfect life for my family, Gram realized I had become just like her. She said, “Perfection isn’t worth it. It isn’t even real.” Then, she asked a question that changed everything for me.”Did you do your best?” When I answered that I had, she said, “Well, that’s all you can do then.”
It changed the way I lived my life and significantly reduced the pressure on me.
Watching her health diminish and understanding that she had limited time helped Gram realize what was important. Perfection and holding onto unrealistic expectations and ideals no longer fit into her life. Watching her learn this lesson allowed me to learn it alongside her. She taught me so that I didn’t have to wait until I was in my 70s battling a terminal illness. When I remember her now, I am forever grateful.
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