For the past few years, I've slowly watched Dementia take bits
and pieces of my healthy hero, my Grandmother, to some faraway
place. What started with retelling stories within an hour of
conversation has now progressed to her asking the same question
every 5 minutes or so. In denial the first year, I told myself it
was just the typical memory loss that comes with aging. However,
last Christmas I was stunned when I noticed she would hardly say a
word during dinner conversations. The tone in her voice seemed
different and her smile appeared reflexive. All I could see was
this shell of a person that used to be my Grandmother. I stared
into her eyes and wondered where she had gone. She was sitting
right in front of me and yet I didn't recognize her. Not knowing
what to do or say or even how to act around her, I put up a wall to
protect myself from the sting. After spending a lifetime of
confiding in her about everything and finding solace in her words,
I suddenly found it difficult to talk to her. I no longer knew what
to talk about. Our conversations were short and I wasn't sure how
to adapt to the changing roles of our relationship. She had always
been my comforter, my consoler, my biggest supporter. How on earth
was I let go of needing that from her? How could I begin to
understand what she needs from me?
Resolution came in May. With the dread of confronting my angst
in my stomach, the family sat around the table eating and sharing
stories of our lives since we last were together at Christmas.
Suddenly, my Grandmother cracked a joke. I can't even remember what
she said, but it wasn't a question or a repeated story or a
statement -- it was her own original thought on the current
conversation happening at the table. Not only was it
her thought, but it was with her
humor. It was exactly the thing I would've heard her say a few
years ago. And in that moment I saw her genuine smile and heard her
authentic laugh. I caught a glimpse of the person I had always
known and had missed so much over the past few years -- all in her
eyes. I realized my Grandmother, my hero, was still here in that
shell. I recognized I had been so foolish to put up that wall and
push her away because I couldn't figure out how to deal with the
changing situation.
Just a few weeks ago, over the Thanksgiving holiday, I did
something with my Grandmother we hadn't done in years. We spent a
full afternoon playing cards. It didn't seem to bother me that I
had to remind her about every 5 minutes how the wild card could be
played or that she needed to discard every round. Instead it amazed
me that she would catch herself drawing seven cards and say, "Oops,
seven is for Uno. Five is for Skip Bo." She would laugh and put the
two extra cards back. There wasn't nearly as much gossiping or
exchanging of tall tales as there once was years ago, but as she
won almost every game, she would look over at me with her smile and
give a wink.
And just like that, something as simple as connecting over an
old favorite card game with a smile and wink is precisely what we
both needed.
Carrie Robertson
Research & Community Education
Chicago Senior Living
Assisted Living
in Chicago