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Ever wish you could go back and change one thing you did in your life? Just one?

My grandmother suffered a severe stroke in 1979 and after ten days in the hospital, she was transferred to a nursing home on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. We thought it was fortunate that she could be admitted into what seemed like a nice, clean place.

It was actually the only home we inspected that did not smell like feces as soon as you walked in.

Gram’s right side was paralyzed, so her speech was not affected. She was, however, pretty loopy sometimes. Claimed she had visits from people she knew who were long dead. Told me how she would take a nice walk in the morning before I arrived, when she was unable to even stand up.

Growing up I was closer to my Grandmother than I was to my mother. I don’t remember her ever bringing me any toys or candy or anything; I just liked to be with her.

When I was sick, she would come over and make me better. When I was upset about something, she would convince me that I shouldn’t be.

And she acted like she believed whatever I told her. The silliest things. One Christmas Eve, I saw Santa standing on my outside bedroom windowsill (five stories up, no less). Gram asked why I didn’t invite him in.

Anyway, during one Sunday visit to the nursing home, Gram began acting increasingly upset. She started yelling at me that “it” had happened again. “What happened?” I asked.

“She’s beating me! She comes into my room at night, and she beats me!” she shouted.

Oh. Here we go with the imagination again, I thought.

“Who does?” I asked.

“The nurse! At night! The night nurse. She likes to beat me. With a magazine! She’s the devil!”

I didn’t believe a word of it, but checked her arms for bruises, just in case. And five minutes later, she was complaining almost as vociferously about the woman in the next bed snoring all night. Ten minutes after that, she was sound asleep.

I mentioned, rather meekly, what was said to a nurse at the desk on my way out, but she just smiled and sort of rolled her eyes.

A week later, Gram briefly referenced the abusive night nurse and told me that she was going to get her. Then we had a discussion about how things were going at my job.

When I went to visit the following Sunday, I walked into a room full of people. The nursing home administrator, the head nurse, a security officer, my mom and aunt and a lineup of four nurses. I had no idea what was happening.

Gram was propped up in her bed with three pillows. She looked at me and nodded, then motioned at the nurses with a tilt of her head.

“Do you see her here?” the administrator asked Gram.

Gram was staring daggers at one nurse in particular. Then she slowly lifted her left arm and pointed straight at her.

“It’s HER!” she shrieked. “She comes in my room at night and she BEATS me!!! With a magazine!”

I later found out that other patients had been complaining as well. But Gram was the only one brave enough to point her tormentor out.

The security guard took the woman by the arm, and with the head nurse following close behind, she was escorted out of the room. Hopefully, they put her on a rack before firing her.

The room slowly emptied out. I took my usual spot on the chair next to the head of Gram’s bed. I felt so bad. After a few minutes I worked up the courage to ask if she was alright. She said she was fine.

Then she told me that she had gone to the movies the night before last. She said she saw ‘The Snake Pit,” with Olivia de Havilland. And that that’s where she lives now. With snakes.

I felt like crap when I got home. Not only was my grandmother getting regular beatings, but I had done nothing to help.

The next day I left work early and went back to the nursing home. They had propped Gram up in a wheelchair next to her bed.

“What are you doing here so soon?” she asked.

“I missed you,” I said. “Want to go outside?”

I wheeled her out of the building, and onto East 79 street, even though it was against the rules. But I figured beating up defenseless old ladies was against the rules, too.

We went down the block and I locked the wheels of her chair next to a bench, then sat down. I held her hand. I felt so guilty.

Coward that I was, I was half hoping she would have forgotten what had transpired. But no. My grandmother was perfectly lucid that day.

I didn’t have to say a word.

“You didn’t know,” she said… “because you didn’t believe me. I bet you won’t do that again.”

I didn’t respond because I could not even attempt to speak just then. Here it was all those years later, and she was still trying to make me feel better.

I got up and bent over to hug her, then gave her a kiss on each cheek.

“It’s okay.” she continued. “Let’s walk. Tell me about your new apartment. And go buy yourself some Lifesavers. You’ll feel better.”

I got up, unlocked the wheelchair, and pushed her around the block until it started to get dark.