I Remember

Memories are funny things. Sometimes they are long-lasting, at other times fleeting. Sometimes they are triggered by pictures, sometimes by nothing more than a familiar smell. They are fragile and delicate and ever-so-precious, and I didn’t really realize until recently, really within the last two years, quite how much I should treasure them.

One of my first memories happened when I was three-years old. It was dramatic enough to stick, I guess. Horse-lover that I was, and have always been, I somehow thought it would be a good idea to take my rocking horse and put it up on my bed, so that I would be up higher. For a few fleeting moments, I was a cowgirl, riding off into the sunset of my bedroom, but then I slipped, fell off the bed, and the rocking horse came tumbling after. Right onto my left arm…breaking it.

I don’t remember the pain. I don’t remember crying, like I’m sure I did. But I do remember the yellow plastic of that rocking horse. I remember its red yarn hair, and its blue nose. I remember the sound of the sand that weighted its bottom as it slipped from the bed and onto my bony arm.

It’s almost a miracle that I can remember those simple details, and of course, there are other miracle memories that are a lot more precious, like the twelve years of memories I have of my grandfathers.

I remember PawPaw telling stories of the Navy and his pet kangaroo in Australia, and I remember Dorsey singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and tickling me into a fit of giggles. I remember PawPaw rocking on the front porch with a gray and white cat in his lap, and Dorsey walking across the yard with an entourage of rescue dogs trailing behind him.

I didn’t know that I would only have twelve years with them. If I had, I think I would have written things down, things that have all but slipped away now. Things I can’t ever get back. Sometimes, our memories betray us that way.

My grandmother’s memories betrayed her in a bigger way. When her confusion first began, we worried. We took her to doctors and specialists, fearing the worst, hoping for only the best. Alzheimer’s is an awful disease…and that’s a gross understatement. It steals those things that are most precious to us, those memories we love and treasure, those pieces of loved ones gone by.

It can be fickle. Some days, it grants its victim clarity; they are back in the present, sharp and clever as ever. But most days, it thrusts them into the past, a past where worries from yesterday haunt their troubled eyes, where those long-dead trip in and out of their lives. It causes confusion and pain, for both the victim and their family.

For two long years, we watched my grandmother struggle with this disease. We held onto good days like gold and cried on the bad days. There’s a reason they call Alzheimer’s “The Long Goodbye.”

She passed away two weeks ago. Stubborn spit-fire that she was, she never stopped fighting in those two years, fighting for herself and for her family, and now her fighting has ended. Finally, that long, hard struggle to hold onto those priceless memories is done.

Her memories have been fully restored, and she’s with my grandfather and my Gram and Papa now. Our hearts ache, but we’re comforted by that, by the fact that she’s her old self again with all her memories…a gift for eternity.

“I remember.” Two simple words that now hold a world of meaning. Fleeting and delicate as can be. The good ones are a gift, write them down, and lock them away for yourself and for the future.

My Meme, 16 years old, Southeastern Fair

 

The Clique

When we arrive, the hallway is already crowded, wheelchairs and walkers making a curious-looking processional, as the residents wait for their various activities. 

On one side, the smokers are obviously getting antsy. On the other, the coffee-drinkers are also beginning to lose their patience. 

As Daddy and I duck through, one of the ladies in a wheelchair meets my eyes. "Excuse me." She says, her gravely, smoker's voice announcing which activity she's waiting on. "What time is it?"

Daddy looks at his watch. "9:20. You've got ten more minutes." 

Collectively, they all begin to sigh and grumble. Ten minutes might as well be an eternity when you're waiting to smoke, drink coffee, and socialize. Especially here.

Having properly riled up the crowd, we make our way through them and back to Meme's room.  

She's already in her wheelchair, blue eyes sharp and bright. Today's another good day. 

We begin our visit by making small talk. The weather, politics, family, and Meme's favorite subject: the past. She speaks of events that happened twenty or thirty years ago as if they happened yesterday. She brings the dead back to life, referring to them as if they're waiting in the next room. She thrives on this talk of history and days gone by. And I'm happy that she spends the majority of her days in that happy past.

As our conversation begins to wane, Daddy suggests that we go down to the cafeteria. Meme immediately perks up at the idea. 

The trip back down the hallway is no less entertaining than the one upon our arrival. Except this time, Meme's with us. It's a bit clearer than before; the smokers have all moved outside for their morning smoke break, and the coffee-drinkers have gathered in the cafeteria, our destination. 

On our way, Meme pokes fun at nurses, admonishes "slow pokes" in front of us, and seems to have something to say to just about everyone. She keeps the hallway laughing, and it turns out this is just a preview of coming attractions.

The second we push through the swinging doors of the cafeteria Meme comes even more alive. 

Still unaware of her transformation, Daddy and I choose a table away from the crowd and settle down for a nice chat and a cup of coffee. 

From across the room, a woman with light red hair and a full face of makeup gestures, "Mary! Mary!" She waves madly. "How are you this morning?"

I watch, astounded, as Meme yells back across the room. "Doin' good! How about you?"

A few other residents near the red-headed woman notice Meme and join in. They carry on a conversation...although I suspect each person may be on a different subject...from across the room. 

Realizing his mistake, Daddy stands and says, "Guess we should move over there."

And so we do. We crowd around a few tables that are already crowded by what I've come to think of as The Clique, and appropriately, the final pieces of the morning seem to click into place, no pun intended.

Like a queen holding court, Meme becomes the center of this small group, cracking jokes and flirting madly with a man named Billy. My Meme, the same one with Alzheimer's, the same one who spends many of her days in a fog, laughs and smiles and entertains us all as if there's nothing wrong, as if a disease isn't eating away at her mind. 

Looking across the room, I notice others, those not lucky enough to be part of The Clique, those not lucky enough to know they are even part of this world. 

One lady colors furiously, bearing down her crayons onto a coloring book filled with pictures of puppies and kittens. 

Another gentleman stares off into space, drool trailing from his bottom lip to the top of his hand where it rests on his wheelchair. 

A man I know only as Bubba watches us all from the corner of the room, taking everything in and thinking deep, and what I imagine to be, sad thoughts. 

The mixture of sad and happy in the room is one that I didn't expect, but then again, no trip to the nursing home is ever quite what I expect. Some days, like today, are good. There's laughter, easy conversation, and plenty of smiles. These are the days we all have to hold on to, keep replaying in our minds over and over so that we can smile and feel good again. 

Because too many of the days are bad. They come too often and stay far too long. Days when the biggest response we can get out of Meme is a blink. Days when we can only stand in her room and cry.  

When those days come again, and they will, I'm going to think of The Clique. I'm going to think of how they yelled across the room at each other, how they chatted and giggled, how they almost seemed like teenagers carrying on at lunchtime in high school. 

I'm going to think of those fleeting moments of youth, lighting on their shoulders like butterflies, bringing them back to life in colors as vivid as an old woman's crayons.  

                                                                             Source: tumblr.com via Gabriel on Pinterest

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But, Now I See

It’s a surreal experience to sit through the same grandfather’s funeral twice in one lifetime. And yet, here I sit, surrounded by family and mouthing the words of “Amazing Grace” as the pastor strums along on his guitar.

I’m ashamed that I don’t know the second verse of “Amazing Grace,” and when I look across the room and see my grandmother, who has Alzheimer’s, singing along at the top of her voice with every word, it makes me even more ashamed.

Today is a good day. MeMe’s mind is sharp; her eyes are bright. It should be a sad occasion, but instead, it feels joyful and sweet. She seems happy, and that makes us all happy.

My grandfather, MeMe’s husband, has been dead for over sixteen years, but in her damaged mind, he died only recently. His death had been troubling her for a few weeks. She had begun asking Daddy and my aunt Claire daily when the funeral was going to be. One particularly hard day, she was ready to leave for the cemetery when Daddy arrived for his daily visit.

Daddy and Claire finally decided that a funeral was in order, something to put her mind at rest and give her some resolution.

Sitting here now, watching her smile and sing along with hymns that are as familiar to her as her own name, I know that they were right.

Alzheimer’s is a nasty disease. It picks and chooses the memories it destroys, leaving some and taking others without any rhyme or reason.

MeMe has vivid memories of the past. Daddy can ask her about neighbors they had thirty or forty years ago, and she remembers their names and the stories surrounding them. Most of the time, she lives in this vivid past, speaking of her Mama and Papa as if they were in the next room, speaking of her children as if they were still teenagers.

I often wonder where the present fits into this past, because, thankfully, MeMe still remembers the names of those in her present. When I visit, I see the recognition in her eyes, and I feel relieved that we have this, just this one thing that we can all still hold on to. In MeMe’s world grown grand-children and long-dead parents can exist together outside of any physical boundaries of time and space.

It’s a world you could almost envy, if you didn’t know any better.

Today, in this present, her smile is infectious, toothless though it may be. She beams it at all of us and keeps saying, “It’s a shame that something like this had to happen to bring us all together.”

And it is a shame.

We visit the Nursing Home as often as possible. Daddy and Claire are there nearly every day. But it’s hard. Life is moving on in the world outside of those walls that keep MeMe so closed in, life is moving on, and because it is, it’s easy to forget.

Which is pretty ironic when you think about it.

Daddy is constantly reminding us all that the people inside the Nursing Home are still people. They still have hopes and dreams and sadness. They have good days and bad days and days when they might not want to go on at all. They're trapped inside a place that reduces them to nearly nothing if we let it. So we mustn't let it, and thus, he reminds me often that those inside are people just like us.

I have to keep repeating this thought like a mantra when I go down the long corridors of the facility. I make it a point to meet the old eyes of each resident I pass, smiling kindly and offering a softly-spoken "hello" and "how are you."

Yes, it's hard to go there. It's hard to see those people trapped. It's hard to see MeMe in a tiny little room that's shared with another resident, a virtual stranger, whose name constantly escapes MeMe’s damaged mind.

But on days like today, when off-key church hymns fill the stale air and make an otherwise sad place happy, when MeMe smiles like she used to, and you almost forget where you are, it’s easy.



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