If I asked my grandmother what my name is, she wouldn't know…
She couldn't say how many children she had, where she used to work, or how old she is. She couldn't even tell you what she did yesterday, yet I have known her all my life.
When I was a little kid, she was the fairy godmother out of my Disney-fueled dreams. Her hands always busy with knitting needles or mixing a batch of whatever cake, quiche, or pastry that took her fancy. These days when I visit her house, I care for her like she used to care for me. Now she is the child and I am the adult.
My family always had a sneaking suspicion that this might happen. Her younger sister suffered the same fate at a much younger age. We'd hear stories of my great aunt's steady decline, being unable to recognise even the closest of friends, refusing to feed her Meals on Wheels to anyone but her beloved dogs. But those stories felt so distant from the everyday problems of our own lives. Instead, we continued to live in denial. I know I did. I hoped that it would not happen to her. She was too active, too immersed in life.
But, I suppose, we should have been looking more carefully. Now we realise the error in waiting too long to act. And all it took was a single moment for my grandparents' world to fall apart. And, in some ways, my world too.
A few years ago my grandfather walked into his local supermarket and didn't walk back out. He was pushed out on a stretcher bed, his face streaked with pain as he clutched at a broken shoulder. His fall onto the hard floor of the supermarket left a shard of the vibrant and active man that he once was. After hours of surgery, his arm was stiff and sore from the metal socket invading his flesh. He then underwent months of painful therapy and stacks of pills to try to repair him. Forced to watch her husband become frailer by the day, my poor Nan cooked, cleaned, and tried to nurse him back to health. The pressure became too much. Despite everyone in the family taking turns to help, the stress of caring for a sick husband and running a house wore her down. I wonder whether we could have shared a few more months, maybe even years of normality if the accident didn't happen.
I always felt that I should have noticed her changing sooner. I spent enough of my time with her, after all. I should have seen the signs. The disorientation, the confusion, and the forgetfulness. Her trouble reading a newspaper article, following a story on daytime TV, even in writing her own name. Sometimes, you could see it in her eyes that she was changing. They always used to have a special little glint in them when she made a joke, but soon they lost that glint and the jokes were few and far between. I suppose the entire family were in denial. We thought it was just old age. Everyone loses their memory a bit as they get older. I'd like to think that's what every family thinks, but I'm not so sure.
When her symptoms became more pronounced, we knew she had to see a doctor. He decided that it was not simply 'old age' that was making her behave so differently. It was Alzheimer's.
He prescribed preventative pills and methods for retaining memory. But they could only do so much. We though she might just plateau with the help of medication, that she would just be a little absent minded sometimes, but they were not a permanent fix. Day by day, she began to spiral downwards, slowly forgetting every part of her world.
When I visit these days, I expect her to be worse. Sadly, I'm always right. As time passes, her hold on language is decreasing. She seems to speak in riddles, unable to fully articulate her thoughts and feelings. Curiously, she has developed a strong connection with the family pet. Years ago, the poor ragged mutt wouldn't be allowed to set foot on her well-cleaned carpets. Now, Nan takes every opportunity to sneak Missy inside, letting her sit by her feet to be petted incessantly. "Oh, that poor dog!", she constantly exclaims. The house used to smell like her cooking, now it smells like Missy.
Poignantly, these behaviours are common for someone suffering with Alzheimer's disease, and in my life, they have become so regular, so normal, that they have begun to feel comic. My grandmother's claim that she is, in fact, twenty-one years old or that she really doesn't need to have a shower just make me laugh. At this point, I feel that there's nothing else for me to do but laugh.
The only thing I regret is not considering the possibility of Alzheimer's sooner. As a family, we have been forced to take a back seat and watch this disease consume the woman we love and admire. The independence that was given to her in adulthood has been stripped back, leaving her the shell of the person she once was. It's cyclical, in a way, how she has returned to being a child once more. It's almost like we've switched roles. She is a child again, joyful in spite of her suffering.
This cruel role reversal has left my family and I wondering how it happened so fast. How she managed to slip through our fingers. It's like we didn't get to say goodbye. Now we are just left with the things we should have said, and a feeling of guilt.
Guilt that we could have treasured her more before Alzheimer's took her away from us.
