A history, lost

Having witnessed many changes in my lifetime, I find that I do not enjoy them. Since change is usually—to me—something negative, I find it hard to embrace. My mother calls me stubborn, but I call it loyalty. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what I consider the biggest adjustment of my life.

When my grandmother broke her hip she was transferred from her grand house that overlooks Lake Erie (the pearl of Northeastern Ohio), to a rehabilitation center. After a week or so, it was determined that she was suffering from Dementia and would not be returning to her home as we previously planned. I can’t say that I was completely surprised by the declaration about her health; I had been questioning it for some time. Gran often asked the same question more than once, and was having troubles with her memory.

For those who are unaware, I will explain the enormity of this tragic disease. Dementia is defined as: ‘deterioration of intellectual facilities resulting from an organic disease or disorder of the brain and sometimes accompanied by emotional disturbance, or madness; insanity’. This means that if you develop Dementia, you will begin a gradual decline in your normal thinking process and eventually become incapable of performing simple tasks like taking care of yourself. Alzheimer’s is a severe form of Dementia, and every seventy-two seconds, someone develops it.

If it wasn’t bad enough that Gran was hit with this terrible disease, she has lost much of her life to it. Gran can’t ever go back; mentally or physically. This means that sometimes Gran doesn’t even recognize us when we visit her, or know what we are talking about when we speak to her. I find myself wondering strange things that never occurred to me before. Gran’s house has become a museum of untold tales and intriguing mysteries that have become customary in my mind. Each time that I walk through the house that I grew up in, along with seventeen other grandchildren, I notice new things.

My fingers trace the brown three-dimensional wallpaper in the foyer, and I marvel as to what made Gran choose it. I stare at the dusty knick-knacks, wondering if they hold any particular importance. I peruse the worn record albums, silently singing the titles of songs from years gone by. In the library that holds thousands of books, I wonder, did my grandmother read each one? Had her fingers turned the pages while the story held her enraptured while she read? Is that where I got my love of reading from? Was it because my Gran loved it so? When Gran Grace was cognizant, why did I not think to ask these questions? Only now, when she is incapable of recalling her youth, or even mine, do these questions haunt me night and day.

Gran doesn’t remember buying that six-bedroom, four-and- a-half bath house, so I may never ask her what prompted her to do so. I’ll never know why she loved Nat King Cole so much, or why I never cared before. I stare at the window seat in the living room that I didn’t spend nearly enough time in. Had Gran bought the house with the intent of spending reading hours in that quaint nook? Or did she buy the house because of that little door beneath the grand staircase that overlooks the basement? Perhaps my grandmother decided on this house because of the mural in the breakfast nook depicting a sunny day at the beach complete with water-skiers and sun-bathers, painted in 1966. Will my children never get the chance to gaze at this mural while enjoying chocolate milk and grilled cheese from the waffle iron as I did?

I finger each pane of glass in each window that I gaze out of, as if memorizing the views that I have been accustomed to seeing my entire life. I stare out the dining room window, and the glare of the lake blinds me with alarm that this is all falling away from me. I can almost see the water evaporating before my eyes. I search the smallest bedroom in vain for the tiny owl lamp that Gran used as our night-light so long ago. The floors creak beneath my feet and the familiar smell of the room gives my mind a momentary respite from wondering how all of this can be lost to us just because of one terrifying disease.

When the house is sold, as it inevitably will be, will it be taken care of properly? This house of my grandmother’s that has served as a haven for three generations of children. Who will the new owners be? Will they too have a piano that plays music by itself, as if by magic? Will the matching stool have a seat that lifts to serve as a home for their paper dolls as it did mine? Will their children have adventures like we did in the TV room in the basement?

These are the things that Dementia has taken away from me, and I can’t say why. Is it a blessing, perhaps, that my Gran can’t remember all that she has lost? Is she indeed the lucky one? She who can no longer see to read a book, or think to tell a fun story about her childhood, or know how many grandchildren she has that love her. If these are things that remain in our hearts, and in pictures or our minds eye, why does it ache when they slip through our fingers?

When leaving Gran’s house a greater attention is paid to each small detail. Each tree branch, and shrub are committed to memory. The bird bath in the yard, circled by the lilac ‘popping flowers’, (now known as Hostas) becomes a book mark in my soul. The round cement table, with curved matching benches is something that I will forever miss.

Grand died in August, succumbing, finally to the disease that haunted her for three years. We ‘celebrated’ her life in that house, redecorated and changed from what it looked like when my grandmother would sit on her brown leather couch and watch her ‘stories’. Gone were the knick-knacks, the albums, the photographs of her loved ones…the magic piano. Gran, now was gone too.

I tossed a handful of her ashes over the cliff, quickly enclosing a small amount of them in my hand. It had been raining all day, and the children threw flowers over the same cliff that they used to throw rocks out to try to reach the lake. That was where she would always be, I thought, in the lake that she loved so. I miss her still, and haven’t really grieved. Not properly. Somehow I don’t think she’d want me to. I still love her, and I miss her dearly. I still talk to her. I also remember the house that was, the house that isn’t, anymore. The house that my aunt changed in ways I can’t even mention. Perhaps that was the reason that Gran forgot to remember; so that she wouldn’t grieve over the loss of the beloved house that she worked so hard to decorate. So that she wouldn’t cry, as we did when her children began to tear apart the life that she had lived. Was Gran the lucky one? The one who forever lodge dwells in the water that her home has always overlooked. Yes, perhaps Gran is the lucky one after all, because she was able to forget everything because of her dementia before it was taken away from her.

If I trace grandmothers footsteps, shall I be able to assist in a cure? If so, it is already too late for many people, my Gran included. This disease that is hereditary must stop before it gets to me. Dementia has taken too much from me, already.