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.
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| My Meme, 16 years old, Southeastern Fair |
