Forgotten Memories

“Good morning Grandpa!” I bellowed as I walked through the front door, the crisp Iowa cold rushing after me. He tilts his head slightly towards me with a soft smile and a far-off stare. I shut the door behind me and hang up my jacket. “Did you want your other blanket?” I ask as I step over the large quilt crumpled next to his recliner.

“No I’m okay with this one,” he says patting his covered lap.

“Alright well just let me know if you do want it and I’ll get it for you.” I sit down on the couch next to my Grandma who is flipping through a large photo album. “What’s this?” I ask as I grab the corner.

“They’re photos of some different crafts your Grandpa has made over the years.” Smiling, she points at one; “Remember this?” I pull the album closer and examine the photo. It’s of my Grandpa and me in their old garage. I couldn’t be older than five, standing on a chair to reach his work table. He’s in his classic blue plaid button-up sprinkled with sawdust, directing my soaked paintbrush across the wooden clock he’d just made. He was always working on different projects such as restoring antique furniture or making goofy handmade birthday cards. So many memories of my childhood involved his creativity. No matter what house they lived in there was always a tree with carved eyes and mouth open in shock, or a fallen branch made to look like a snake sliding through the garden. I peek outside and glance at their current yard, barren of the joy I had become accustomed to.

“Yeah, I remember. He always let me help no matter how sloppy I made it look.”

“Oh stop it,” my Grandma pesters. “He loved having you all around, we both do.” She squeezes my hand gently, holding back tears. It felt wrong talking about him in the past tense as if he wasn’t in the room with us. I look over at him relaxing in his blue plush recliner. His eyes are focused on the television, a juvenile glaze over his eyes. Admittedly, he wasn’t here. There were glimpses of him and his typical deadpan humor, but overall he wasn’t the same person. Sighing, I look back at the photo. I remember that day as if it had just happened.

He had just finished building a barn clock, one of the hundreds he had made in his lifetime so far. I sauntered into the garage in my pink princess pajamas.

“What are you making Grandpa?” I ask sweetly. “Can I help?”

“Sure thing, I was just about to start painting it.” I climbed onto the chair peering over the table. He hands me a paintbrush and pours out some red paint. He directs me where to paint the barn. “All of this part here can be red, the roof we are going to keep brown.” I giggle as I dunk the paintbrush into the paint.

“Like this?” I say as the paint sloshes around the wood. Laughing, he nods. As the globs of paint begin to cover the body of the barn, I point at the roof. In a window sits a carving of an owl, staring intently forward. “That’s an owl!” I exclaim excitedly. “What color can he be?”

“Well, we want him to stand out from the red and brown. What color do you think he should be?”

I look around at the colors before exclaiming “Pink!” We both laugh as he places some pink paint onto the cardboard next to the red.

“Great choice.”

He had clocks like that all over the house back then. Constructed professionally with different structures. Some had animals like chickens or cows, others focused on more greenery surrounding the barn. The owl clock had been one of the last ones we did together. If I had known how much those little wooden barns would mean to me now I would have made a thousand more. Looking around the house I get a larger sense of how empty it is compared to the past. Walls that had been covered in barn clocks, figurines, and stained glass paintings were now blank. The visual reminder emphasizes the progressing dementia. Realizing how many crafts he no longer does is a reality check I wasn’t ready for. Even his leisure hobbies of doing puzzles and bird watching were gone. Mentally, his jokes were the same and just as frequent. However, it was apparent when he was in his own world; seeming to pretend to recognize us. His body was also failing as he spent his days and nights in his recliner. Too weak to move other than assisted help to the bathroom.

The recliner creaks and I look over as he is adjusting himself to the edge of his chair. I stand up and take a few steps towards him. “Do you need to get up?”

“Yeah,” he says lightly.

“Okay let me help you.” I set his walker in a place where he can easily grab it. My Grandma comes over and stabilizes him while hoisting him out of the chair. I stay behind him, anticipating any imbalance that could cause him to fall. It’s painfully slow as he adjusts to standing, trying to stay upright. Gripping my Grandma with one hand, he shakily attempts to place his other on one side of the walker. Grandma tries to direct him, a little too forcefully, and Grandpa reels his hand back in protest. She huffs, clearly overwhelmed with being a caregiver at her age. “It’s okay I got it, you can relax.,” I tell her as I gently move her out of the way. She sighs her way into her bedroom and I coax Grandpa towards the bathroom. “What would you do without us here?” I joked with him.

“Pee myself,” he says with his wide playful eyes and a hint of a smirk. We make our way to the bathroom, one agonizing step at a time until he’s outside the bathroom.

“I’m going to leave the walker out here to give you more room in the bathroom okay? I’ll be here when you’re done.”

“Okay,” he responds sweetly before closing the door behind him. I lean against the hallway wall, trying not to show my emotions. How did it get like this so fast? It had been a few years since I last was able to visit and I can’t help but feel guilty for not being here sooner. Grandma kept in touch providing updates so I knew he had some falling accidents and trouble walking. I had been briefed that they suspected dementia as well but I never really acknowledged it until now. It was impossible to ignore now. Even with the familiar humor and demeanor, there were times that I had to plaster a smile on my face.

The door creaks open and he smiles at me, bracing himself on the doorway. I turn to him, arms ready if needed, as he makes his trek back to his recliner. He stops a little too short of the chair and starts to push his walker away.

“A little bit closer Grandpa. Don’t want you to fall onto the armrest.” He inches forward slightly and I hover as he falls back onto the chair. I grab his blanket and place it on him as he makes his same goofy grin. “Is this what you want to watch?” I ask, pointing towards the television. He nods in agreement and I set the remote next to him. Grandma is still in her room so I go to check on her. She’s on the bed, no tears present but tissue in hand. “How are you doing?” I say sitting next to her.

“Oh I’m alright,” she responds. “He just gets so difficult sometimes.”

“I know it’s not easy. That’s why your family is here to help.” I hug her and glance at her nightstand. Multiple self-help books about coping with loneliness lay there. A wave of sadness washes over me as I realize how hard this must be for her.

“Look what I found,” she says as she goes to her closet. She kneels down and sifts through some picture frames. Memories of a time hidden away. “I figured you would want this.” She hands me a wooden block inscribed “Made by Kristen and Denny.” Turning it over I already know what I’ll see. As the pink owl comes into view I can't hold back the tears.

“Thank you,” I choke out, grazing my finger along the grooves of its feathers. I bring it to my face and the scent of the wood takes me back to that garage again. It’s bittersweet loving a memory that I know will never happen again. We both sit in silence, reminiscing. A humming sound comes from the living room. Grandpa is watching one of those old country song shows, whistling to tunes happily. I turn to Grandma and we both produce the same smile. Simultaneously we go out and join him. He looks at us, continuing his song. We sit down together and relax in blissful silence, grateful for the present.

“Love you Grandpa”

“Love you too.”