When Gramma was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, humor had to become a part of our lives. It’s a daily agony to become a stranger to someone you love deeply. My mother grieved that her own mother didn’t remember her. Mom was gracious and kind, but missed having a relationship with her. You lose them, before you really lose them.
You can’t ask them advice, share memories or catch up on family happenings. We learned to accept Gramma as she was and live in whatever world she was in that day. There’s no longer give and take in the relationship, only give and give some more. You even weep for them, because they don’t even know what they’re missing.
To Gramma, I was only “The Lady with all The Kids.” I visited her almost weekly in the nursing home, to her continual confusion. She sat with us politely, sometimes on her bed, sometimes in the main living room where residents sat and folded washcloths.
The staff would take a basket of folded washcloths to another room, mess it up, and bring it back. They’d say, “I’m sorry, but there’s so much laundry today. Do you mind folding another basket? Thank you so much!” Usefulness gave the residents vigorous purpose. It was a staff member, whose name and face draw a blank, but her love and devotion still warm my heart, that told me my Gramma referred to me as “The Lady with All the Kids.”
It didn’t matter that Gramma didn’t remember who I was, I was thankful she remembered me at all.
I would ramble on about things Gramma knew nothing about, to avoid upsetting her. I could monologue an hour or two away talking about the weather, funny things the kids did, and sewing projects. I didn’t ask questions because she wouldn’t know the answers.
Gramma and the other residents liked our visits. We became the center stage act, and residents would shuffle in to see my kids play with the sorry basket of toys and books on the wing. My kids nervously noticed their blanks stares and drool, but I saw deeds achieved and lives influenced in their accumulated pasts. It brought tears to my eyes on more than one occasion.
As with a child at the playground, I learned to warn Gramma when I was preparing to leave. I’d give an update on the errands I had to run since I was in town. At the time, we rented a farmstead in the country and going to town alone with all five kids could only be braved once a week. I saved all the shopping for one day – Town Day. Then, I’d tell her I was leaving. As I prepared the kids to leave I promised her I’d be back, even though she wouldn’t remember that promise.
A few times she followed us to the elevator and tried to get on. I used to think she wanted to come home with us, but now I know better. She wanted to escape, but she didn’t know where she was from, so didn’t know where to go.
A staff member would gently hold her and talk in those reassuring tones they have perfected, while I pushed the button of guilt and watched the doors close in front of her face.
Only rarely did Gramma remember people. A few times she said, “I haven’t seen Arne for weeks. I bet he’s off fishing and won’t come see me.” Then she’d turn to me. “I suppose he’s off fishing with your husband.”
Instead of telling Gramma her dear husband Arne had been dead for over ten years, I lived in her world. “Yea, Gramma, you’re probably right. You know men.” I’d laugh, and we’d talk about husbands and fishing until that memory dissipated.
If Gramma ever brought up a topic of conversation, it was about our husbands. I was amused she didn’t remember I was her granddaughter bringing in five of the cutest great-grandchildren in the world to visit her, but she remembered my handsome husband. Once she even called him by name, although she hadn’t used mine in years.
Gramma and me in 1993.
Yep, I’m wearing a stonewashed denim jumper
with a drop waist and believe it or not, I was totally in style.
In my mind, anyway. I’m also totally pregnant with #3.
One day when we arrived, Gramma was still in her bathrobe. I’d never seen her in anything but her large, flowered print shifts, with shorts sleeves and rounded necks, stockings and garter belt with sensible shoes. As a child, we loved when Gramma lifted up her skirt and showed us the rows of little shiny clips that held her stockings up. She would giggle with the mischievous smirk we loved, then lower her hem modestly.
This day, she had a similar look at her face. She half grinned, then grabbed the edges of her bathrobe and opened it up. Smiling so all of her dentures showed, she said, “Look, I haven’t anything on under here.” She giggled, and closed her bathrobe while I wondered if my children would be scarred for life. She was experiencing the same thrill as when one of my children would escape my clutches after a bath, and run naked through the house.
When Gramma had a bit of lucidity, she wanted to make me a sandwich. She knew the kids and I had traveled to see her, and she knew she must feed us. At first I tried to make excuses – I wasn’t hungry or we had just eaten – but it never calmed her down. I learned to let her grab my arm and march me around the floor looking for the kitchen. I knew after a few laps she’d forget what she was looking for. Then we could sit together and I would chatter again to fill up the empty space in her heart and mind.
Because it was Town Day, the five kids were always dressed up. The girls would be wearing a dress or a skirt, their hair done, usually with a special hair bow I’d made by hot gluing a large satin bow to a clip. The boys would be in nice jeans and shirts. After all, it was Town Day.
One day, Gramma gave me a special gift to give to my mom. When we arrived, she was standing by the window on her roommate’s side of the room, staring, staring, staring. Her body was still, as she never was in the days when she had her mind, but her eyes darted like a robin seeking for worms. My kids stood with her, joining in her vigilant watch without knowing what they were looking for. I knew. She was watching for Grandpa. I didn’t despair, because I knew at least for a few minutes, she was remembering something. Something is always better than nothing.
She reached over to my daughter’s hair and began playing idly with the silky blonde strands beneath the hair bow.
“My daughter, Mary, had hair just like this.” She continued to stroke the hair and I could vividly see the memory forming in her mind. “And I used to make bows just like this for her.” Wishing with all my heart for a complete breakthrough, I dared to say, “Mary is my mom. These are your great-grandkids.”
She turned, looked through me as she always did, and didn’t respond. I was still just “The Lady with all The Kids.”
It was only after my initial disappointment did I see the gift that had just been given.
That day, lost in Alzheimer’s sea of forgetfulness, she remembered that she had a daughter named Mary.