Still My Granddad
“I will forget today, but that doesn’t mean that today doesn’t matter.”
This afternoon, (with a handful of tissues for inevitable tears), I willingly put myself through the film Still Alice, the story of a linguistics professor diagnosed with familial Alzheimer’s disease.
Firstly, the film was rendered beautifully. Alice’s decline, although tragic in every sense of the word, was depicted with gentle respect.
Richard Glatzer and Wash Westmoreland (Co-Directors of the film) expertly breached the gap between viewer and characters on screen. I was pulled into moments of confusion, present with Alice whilst sharing the deep sadness of her family watching on.
On a personal level, the film struck a heavy chord, due to my Grandfather’s current struggle with frontal lobe dementia.
Certain shots from Still Alice were images I’ve seen firsthand, those of my Granddad I wish would not linger in my memory as they do.
As Alice’s memory fades fast, she is unable to achieve tasks as simple as dressing herself. I recall leaving family dinner and seeing Baba, (Grandma in Croatian) in her bedroom window, with Didi (Croatian for Grandpa) leaning on her and raising a shaky bare leg above the pyjama pants she was holding open beneath him. He was hesitating, as if entirely unable to comprehend what was happening.
It left a deep ache somewhere inside me. It’s the same ache I feel when he picks up a fork to eat his soup, when he calls me by the wrong name, or when he mumbles something unintelligible and all I can do is smile and nod as if I understand.
Memories are a vital part of who we are and how we perceive ourselves. To lose them seems a great, undignified injustice.
However what I got from the film was not only a runny nose and snotty tissues, but a significant underlying message of hope.
Not the hope that things will get better, because I’m well aware that ‘better’ is not generally the way these diseases run their course.
It’s the hope that through the ache of all this confusion and loss, Didi will experience enough of his true self, real or imagined, each day, to live happily.
As a word, love is tossed around all over the place, and because of that it almost seems inadequate in describing how Baba and the rest of the family care for Didi.
But really, it is the answer, particularly in his day-to-day struggles. Without a loving hand to clean him, hold his arm, or lower him into his wheelchair, happy would hardly be possible.
And I think that’s what is required with things like this. It’s a challenge, not one we choose, but one we’re faced with nonetheless – a state of happiness being the ultimate goal. We all know the renowned Ralph Waldo Emerson quote:
“Life is a journey, not a destination.”
So if we’re all journeying towards what makes us happy, shouldn’t that journey and the efforts it comprises become our focus?
Of course, it’s much easier to speak about this mindset than to apply it, as is the case with a lot of things. But I believe that in dealing with a circumstance such as Didi's, it’s key.
Happiness changes course constantly, for everyone. And for my Granddad, if it has been redefined as simply a chuckle, a familiar wink, or a word spoken clearly, then it is enough to sustain a joyful existence – one that I am privileged to be let in on.
