I believe the greatest lesson my G.G. taught me was one she never intended to teach. My G.G. is my grandmother, but she thought being called “grandma” meant she was old, so she wanted to be called G.G. for Groovy Granny.Â
She taught me every card and board game that I know. I learned how to play checkers on our living room floor, Spades in her and my Poppa’s king-sized bed, and Five-Crowns at the kitchen table. It didn’t matter where we played; one thing remained true: she would never let me win. Â
I would get so upset losing to her all the time, and her only response was a laugh and a “calm, young grasshopper.” Grasshopper was the nickname she gave me as my master in the arts of gambling and games. She wanted to teach me the importance of not being a sore loser and that if I wanted to win, I was going to have to work hard for it.Â
As my tantrums from losing decreased, my competitive edge grew. I enjoyed playing the rivalry that came with playing these games with my mom or my friends. I thrived off the smack talk and bets that came with playing. But more than anything, I loved to win.
I noticed the more games I lost against my G.G., the more I won against other people. However, none of these victories were enough to satisfy my ultimate goal: to win against my G.G. Anytime I came home from college, I reserved a day in my trip to play games with her.
During one of my last trips home for the holidays, we played best of two out of three in Backgammon—our favorite game. While playing, I could see her taking longer to think during her plays and needing to be reminded of the rules. I noticed her small, frail, wrinkled hands as they moved the pieces around.
I stopped to look at her face longer than I ever had. Â
She was wearing her go-to blue eyeliner and her bright red lipstick. Her wrinkles were deeper than I remembered. She had a permanent indent on her cheeks from her oxygen tube. The oxygen tank beeping and whirring became more obvious to me as my brain brought awareness to what had been the white noise of childhood into adulthood. Â
“Oh, so close. You win,” my G.G. said, bringing me back into the moment. I wore a tense smile as I put the pieces away because I finally did it. I finally beat my G.G. in a game.
This moment that I craved and waited for so long felt bittersweet. As much as I wish my victory was the result of my lifelong training, which I could feel proud of, I knew that wasn’t the full truth.
The truth that I didn’t want to acknowledge was that I won at the cost of my G.G.’s sickness and catching up to her.
That was one of the last games that I played with my G.G. before she passed away.
I realized that just as she would never intentionally lose to let me win, she didn’t intentionally mean to teach me the greatest lesson of all.
Playing games is like life; you need to be willing to take the risk, you need to accept your losses with grace, and you need to be proud of your wins. But at the end of the game, it doesn’t matter if you win or lose; it’s about the time you get to spend with the people you love.