Yesterday I went to see my 92-year-old grandma.
She doesn't remember very much, and gets really confused and distressed at the
end of the day. It soothes her to see family, though. Even if she doesn't
remember who a lot of us are, she recognizes the familiarity and the affection.
When I came into her room, she was anxiously trying to pack bags. She has been doing this lately because she never feels like she's home. Some part of her brain is aware it's her house, but another part doesn't know where she is. So she always says that she's packing to go home. The way that she packs seems random and wouldn't make sense to others. She tries to stuff socks into books and places spoons with hairbrushes. On some level, though, the packing makes sense. My grandma was always a very organized and capable person. She was smart and a leader; someone who everyone respected. We all used to seek her advice. So it follows that, even in deep-set dementia, she's trying to sort things out and devise plans; to create order. The difference is that now, it's like trying to combine puzzle pieces that won't fit.
A lot of people will try to romanticize dementia. They'll describe it in ways that sound poetic, or act as though the process is somehow "cute." I really cannot do that. I can't assign any kind of fanciful metaphors to what is happening to my grandma. It's heartbreaking and she is frightened. She still finds pleasure in small things, though, in the moments where she's able to be present. She found a penny on her bed and didn't recognize what a penny was, but she thought it was pretty and gave it to me. She said, "Look at this neat little thing!" And, amazingly, she remembered her late daughter Mary when she saw a photo of her from the '80s, grinning mischievously in her tie-dye Grateful Dead shirt and patch-covered jacket.
At one point during the night, my grandma told me, "I think I should go away. And then someone else can take my place so it won't be lost." She may not be aware of very much right now, but I am certain of what she meant by that.
I took a photo of all the things she was organizing, but then deleted it from my phone. That's not the image I want to hold onto. Instead, here is this. It's her and my grandpa at some point in the early 1950s. The picture was hanging on her door. It may be grainy, but there's a look of shared adoration so palatable that it radiates from the page. This is what I want to come back to.
When I came into her room, she was anxiously trying to pack bags. She has been doing this lately because she never feels like she's home. Some part of her brain is aware it's her house, but another part doesn't know where she is. So she always says that she's packing to go home. The way that she packs seems random and wouldn't make sense to others. She tries to stuff socks into books and places spoons with hairbrushes. On some level, though, the packing makes sense. My grandma was always a very organized and capable person. She was smart and a leader; someone who everyone respected. We all used to seek her advice. So it follows that, even in deep-set dementia, she's trying to sort things out and devise plans; to create order. The difference is that now, it's like trying to combine puzzle pieces that won't fit.
A lot of people will try to romanticize dementia. They'll describe it in ways that sound poetic, or act as though the process is somehow "cute." I really cannot do that. I can't assign any kind of fanciful metaphors to what is happening to my grandma. It's heartbreaking and she is frightened. She still finds pleasure in small things, though, in the moments where she's able to be present. She found a penny on her bed and didn't recognize what a penny was, but she thought it was pretty and gave it to me. She said, "Look at this neat little thing!" And, amazingly, she remembered her late daughter Mary when she saw a photo of her from the '80s, grinning mischievously in her tie-dye Grateful Dead shirt and patch-covered jacket.
At one point during the night, my grandma told me, "I think I should go away. And then someone else can take my place so it won't be lost." She may not be aware of very much right now, but I am certain of what she meant by that.
I took a photo of all the things she was organizing, but then deleted it from my phone. That's not the image I want to hold onto. Instead, here is this. It's her and my grandpa at some point in the early 1950s. The picture was hanging on her door. It may be grainy, but there's a look of shared adoration so palatable that it radiates from the page. This is what I want to come back to.
