A Fresh Start

My grandmother died on January 26 after a long battle with Alzheimer's Disease. It is still surreal to even think that she's gone, much less that we had lost her six years ago when the disease began to set in. In terms of being a grandmother, she was the best. She loved my brother and me to the ends of the Earth. nothing can quite replace that.

My grandparents came over to our house every single Friday practically since I was born to babysit me, since my mother works from home. They live over an hour away, and they made the drive every single week. This weekly date with my grandparents grew over the years to include my little brother, and it became our most precious time spent together. They took us to the park, biked with us, read to us, and all in all were the most caring and loving we could ever ask of them. Outside of Fridays, they would come to my dance performances, my brother's choir concerts, and practically every event where they could cheer us on. To put it simply, they spoiled us in the best way possible: with love.

My grandmother in particular was the friendliest person you would ever meet. She could board a flight by herself and land three hours later knowing everything about the person sitting next to her. She wasn't nosy; she was just the kind of person who you knew you could trust with anything. She was the best listener. She was also an avid storyteller, and these plane friends would land knowing every accomplishment of mine and my brother's. She was immensely proud, and loved to share her love of us with everyone she met.

She was also one of the most talented crafters I have ever met. Her house is filled with cross-stitch, crocheted blankets and place mats, knitted scarves and hats, and countless items of clothing she made herself for my dad, my aunt, my brother or me. My favorite movie of all time when I was little was Beauty and the Beast; when I was four, she made me a Belle dress, accurate down to the rosettes on the skirt. The dress is still hanging in our basement, stained and ripped at the seams because I practically lived in it. She tried to teach me how to knit, but I never quite caught on. I was too impatient.

Watching TV was never something she enjoyed. Now, a good book, that would be one thing for which she would settle down. Books are always something that her and her sister, my great aunt, and I always shared a special kind of passion for.

She was always on the move. Walking, biking, gardening, never sitting still. Her flowerbeds were always impeccable and thriving, bursting at the seams with glorious flowers. One of the things I will never, ever forget about her is how much she loved to take walks. Even just this past fall, walking outside with her are some of the best and most peaceful memories I have with her. It's something that never changed about her.

When I was in middle school, my grandmother began to not want to leave the house. She would become stubborn and angry, and slowly but surely it became impossible for her to come to my brother's and my activities. The movies always show Alzheimer's as a forgetful little old lady, who is cheerful but who has no idea who she is. My grandmother wasn't like that; she was angry, upset, and violent at times. She would tell stories over and over again. She would try to kick my grandfather out of the house if she didn't recognize him. Multiple times when my family visited them, we would send my brother and my dad in first because she tended to recognize them better (my brother looks a lot like my dad when he was young). It was horrible and heartbreaking when I look back on it, and I wouldn't wish my worst enemy losing a loved one like this.

The only way I can describe watching someone you love go through Alzheimer's is grieving over, and over, and over again every time you see them. Watching someone you love in pain is the most difficult thing in the world. The first time I saw my grandmother truly suffering from her disease, she was wandering around the house in a daze, upset and confused repeating, "I don't know where I am, I don't know who I am." No matter what you try to tell them, nothing will ease the horror that is being totally lost in your own home. I broke down sobbing because that was the day I realized there was no going back. This wasn't a bout of depression or something that could be easily fixed. Every day, the end only came nearer. We didn't know where, we didn't know when, but the angel of death hovered over my family for six straight years.

This Christmas, my grandmother had one of the best days she has had in a very, very long time. She was happy, alert, active, and in a certain kind of way, I almost had my grandmother back. It was Christmas and it was less than 30 degrees outside, but we had ice cream for dinner like always. No matter what else she would or wouldn't eat, she never lost a bit of her sweet tooth. We left at the end of the night soaring, marveling at how well the day had gone.

20 minutes on the road, we get a text from my aunt that reads, "She's really bad. We called 911."

My family turned around without hesitation.

Me, I was a wreck that night. I couldn't stop worrying, and once again, it was just another blow that the sweet, amazing woman that was my grandmother was no more. I was terrified, and angry, and most of all sad.

My grandmother had a tendency to become especially physical and violent when she was angry after the Alzheimer's began to really set in, and that night was so bad that my aunt and great aunt called the paramedics. As soon as they got there, my grandmother was courteous, calm, and polite, if a little confused. At the hospital, she was examined and found to be in completely normal health for an 83 year old woman. she was just as spry as ever. It wasn't her body that was the problem though.

We were sent home after midnight that day. My grandmother was finally given medications to help with her spells of violence and anger, and my grandfather finally agreed to have a caretaker come in and help with everyday tasks. My grandmother was, for the most part, physically able to take care of herself. Then MLK day weekend hit.

She had stopped eating. She was having trouble swallowing. I was at school, two hours from my grandmother, and my mom called me on Saturday night to tell me that things had declined quickly. She had been put in in-home hospice.

After two days of crying and processing, I went home to spend the last moments I would ever have with my grandmother, stuck in a bed, unable to move on her own after a lifetime of mobility.

She was a woman of great dignity, and I know that this is not how she would have ever wanted to go. The hardest part of that week wasn't even seeing her suffer physically, although that was hell; it was knowing that when she was healthy mentally, she was one of the strongest people I have ever known, and it was reconciling that woman with the one in front of me.

She died exactly a week after that phone call with my mom, and exactly a month after the day we celebrated Christmas together. That night, we toasted to her with bowls of ice cream, the last of the carton split between seven instead of eight.

I love you, Mopie. I miss you every single day.