The air on the bus was thick and stifling, smelling of sweat, dust and energetic kids who were all excited to finally get off and play. The brakes screeched as we pulled to a stop, the bus’s momentum throwing me forward momentarily before I descended into the fresh air. The warm air wrapped around me as I walked to my front door. It was my day to watch her, so I took my place at the kitchen table- the seat cushion squeaked as I crossed my legs.

I sat her down, my voice seeming to break her trance and she smiled at me. I got out a coloring book and crayons which she often enjoyed doing. I looked down for a moment, the intoxicating smell of wax drifting up from the box of crayons. The sound of coughing snapped me out of my reverie. I whipped my head up from investigating the box of crayons just as she began to fall. I jumped up frantically as her head hit the empty chair next to her as she continued to choke. I struggled to pick her up and help her, but she was far too heavy for me. I felt the warm tears roll down my cheeks as I cried for help. I ran to the phone and dialed 911, frantic cries from my mother echoing in the background.

The ambulance’s sirens echoed as I thought, “How could this be happening?” My mom handed me the phone and I dialed instinctively, the scene unfurling in front of me as if it were a dream. I dropped the phone, the disconnect tone being added to the noise of chaos as I ran to open the door for the paramedics. Before I knew it, I was being chased out of the room, as if I hadn’t seen enough already, and she was stabilized and whisked away in the ambulance, my dad tailing behind. I watched as the caravan drove away until all that was left was my tear-faced reflection looking back at me in the window. My mom said it wasn’t my fault, that it couldn’t be helped, and that there was nothing I could’ve done. But how could I begin to believe that I couldn’t have prevented something from happening? It was my responsibility to watch her, if only I hadn’t gotten so caught up in picking out a crayon maybe I could’ve stopped something.

Now, ten years later I reflect on the impact that living with someone diagnosed with Alzheimer’s has had on me. We had been asked by my grandfather to move in with them to help him take care of her, as she had already begun to show signs of advanced Alzheimer’s. Of course my parents obliged, and we moved in when I was 8; I secretly hated them for that. I blamed them for the loss of my childhood, what 8 year old wouldn’t? Besides all the idiosyncrasies that come with living with grandparents, living with a grandparent diagnosed with Alzheimer’s was different. In her eyes i could never do anything right, i was closed between doors and threatened with the belt. Now of course, all of this was forgiven because she didn’t remember who i was. Did she? I detested the fact i had to live with the person who took away my childhood and my chances at being “normal.” But on that day, 10 years ago, when I watched her life flash before my own eyes, I no longer despised the choice my parents made of moving in with them.

Living with my grandmother and watching her slowly lose what each one of us fail to appreciate most, our memory. Despite our challenged relationship, she taught me a lot of things. She taught me to appreciate the little things, to cherish each moment because you might not remember it one day, and she taught me to treasure the people that truly care about me because one day you might have to let them go. And although she might not remember who I am, I will always remember her, and thank her for the impact she’s had on my life and making me who I am today.