I've
debated about writing something about my grandma's Alzheimer’s and myself for a
while. Writing is a release for me and right now I need one. I hope you read this and thank you if you do.
I
remember doing a presentation on Alzheimer’s in college and the other students
in my class saying how it was the worst thing they could possibly imagine
happen to their loved ones. I remember listening to them and wanting to cry.
At
this time, she hadn’t forgotten who I was but the combination of college work
and knowing each day that how she was today would be the best she’d ever be again
caused me to be very depressed. Being the shy person that I was, I contemplated
speaking to someone about it, but never did. I should have. I ask myself why I didn’t
quite often.
I
don’t like to see my grandma. I admit I will avoid going to see her. It’s the
most selfish thing I’ve ever thought, but I can’t help it. I hope you don’t
judge me for it. I love my grandma. But it takes such an emotional toll on me
after every visit that every time it takes me longer to pull myself back
together.
Today, we put my grandma into a home. Nearly five years after we first suspected something was wrong, the time came that she could no longer stay at home. Her Alzheimer’s has progressed enough that she needs 24/7 care. Something that my elderly grandfather can’t provide.
This afternoon, I went with my mam to my grandparents’ house to pick my grandma up. Seeing the
garden that was her pride and joy so overgrown and neglected made me want to
start crying before we’d even got there.
I
played with their dog while my mam packed her clothes into a suitcase. As my
grandad explained which pills she should take and when, I could hear my grandma
in another part of the house talking to herself. She often talks to herself in
mirrors or reflective surfaces because she doesn’t know her own face.
With
the car packed with her clothes and box of adult nappies, it was time to go. My
grandad started to cry. While we put her coat on, he told her he’d see her soon and she gave him a
confused look. He kissed her on the cheek.
She turned to me and began to cry. “You’re making me cry. That was lovely.
Thank you,” she told him.
“You
can come with us you know,” my mam said to my grandad.
“No,”
he answered.
In
the car, she turned and smiled to me in the back. That look is what breaks my
heart each time. It’s the empty smile you give a stranger. A polite one.
At
the top of their drive, there’s a gap between the bushes that lets you see down
to the kitchen window. Every time I have visited my grandparents’ house in the 20 years I've been alive, I have
stopped to wave at them. They'd always be leaning on the counter waiting to wave back. We stopped at the
spot, my mam and I waved, and my grandma watched us while we did it. I wanted
to tell her to remember to wave, but she wouldn’t know what I was talking
about.
At
the nursing home, we walked her slowly inside as she can’t walk very long
distances any more. As I helped, she patted my cheek and said, “You’re lovely.”
I smiled back.
We sat her down and one of the nurses gave her a cup of tea. After taking a
sip she told us how lovely it was, how much better it was than what she used to
get at the last place. Her house for the last 30 years was now ‘that place’.
She didn’t understand that she was now in a nursing home.
We
labelled all her clothes with her name and put them in her drawers and
cupboard. One the nurses came to ask us some questions about her. Does she eat?
Yes. Does she take from other people’s plates? Yes. We explained that she was
doubly incontinent. The nurse reassured us that they had seen it all. Nothing
could surprise them. She told us not to worry. I wanted to thank her over and
over for the work she does. Throughout my grandma sat, quietly watching,
completely unaware that we were talking about her.
My
grandma’s room is opposite a women she used to live two doors down from for 25
years. “It’s Rita, grandma,” I told her. “Oh,” she said.
My
mam went to say hello and chat to Rita for a few minutes and it was quiet
between me and my grandma. Years ago, I used to tell her everything, visiting
her after school to chat. Now she can’t hold a conversation, she just can't follow it along. My mam and Rita laughed about something across the hall. “Someone’s
happy over there,” she said to me. I nodded back. ‘That’s your daughter!’ I wanted
to say. Instead I smiled and made comments
about the room, about her tea that had now gone cold. She explained to me how
she’d gotten the tea, as if I hadn’t been there. I acted like I didn’t know
what she was telling me.
When
we were leaving, she sat, oblivious of being in a strange room with strange
people. My mam kissed her on the cheek. She laughed and made a surprised face
at me. I kissed her on the cheek too. “I’m getting so many kisses,” she said. “Thank
you.” She started to cry.
Driving
away my mam said to me, “If I ever end up like that, please hit me over the
head with a frying pan. I don’t want to go into a home.”
“Do
you know who else always said that?” I asked her.
“Who?”
“Grandma.”
