Alzheimer’s: Remember the Moments
A short story about my Grandma’s battle with Alzheimer’s
Harsh fumes from burnt snickerdoodle cookies engulfed the living room, but the fighting had finally stopped.
As I fight for fresh air in the smoky room, I stretch out my legs, cover myself in a fuzzy blanket, and slouch prostrate onto the living room couch.
Finally, a moment of peace.
Then…
The shouting picks up again.
Ignore it.
The voices grow louder and louder.
Just relax.
Their bellowing voices shake the entire house.
Are you kidding me!
I tear off my blanket, launch myself onto my feet, and march towards the confrontation.
I have to play peacemaker before they rip each other’s heads off… again…
Pacing back and forth, my Dad pleads, “Pap, it’s dangerous. You can’t keep letting her cook alone; she’ll burn the house down.”
Slowly rocking back and forth in his antique rocking chair, my Grandfather rolls his eyes and barks, “It’ll help her remember. She’s got to cook. That’s her thing.” My Grandfather sits tall with his chin up as he folds the page of his newspaper.
“Pap — I know it’s hard to accept, but it’s just not safe.”
My Grandfather fires back, “Oh come on, Joey. She’s been doing this forever. You remember how many times she cooked you dinner in that same kitchen. How can you take that away from her? She needs this!” My Grandfather adjusts his circular reading bifocals.
A gloomy expression confines the face of my Dad, “Pap, I know. But things just aren’t the same anymore.”
I step out onto the battlefield and butt in, “Hey, it’s a little loud. Is everything okay?”
Wiping off his scowl and replacing it with a wide grin, my Grandpa responds, “Oh hey there, sport.”
My Dad chimes in, “Yes, all good. We need your help though. Can you just watch over Grandma while we run some errands?”
Leaning in close and glaring into my eyes, my Dad commands, “Just make sure she does not cook!”
Uh…
“Great. Come on. Let’s go Pap”
Oh Lord, what have I gotten myself into?
Leaning forward, hunched over a mound of fabric, my Grandma hawkishly quilts a blanket as a bead of sweat slowly rolls down her forehead.
“Hey Grandma, how are you doing?”
“Oh, hey there, Joey. When did you get in? Come give your mother a kiss.”
Oh no.
I feel my face flush with secondhand embarrassment. Does she really not know it’s me?
“Well, what am I chopped liver? Come here, Joey.”
“Its Wally, Grandma.” I slowly approach her leaning in for a hug.
“Oh, Wally. Well, haven’t you gotten so big.” She tightly squeezes my cheeks.
I shy away from her, rubbing my sore cheeks, “So what are you making?”
“I am making a quilt of… Oh. Uh, uh?” Fumbling for words, she hesitates, and stares blankly at the ceiling.
I look in her lap and see perfectly crafted figures. Three pink pigs with white wings floating in the skyline and stitched meticulously onto a navy-blue quilt.
My mouth drops in awe.
“Wow! That is amazing Grandma. You know my favorite animal is a pig.”
“Why of course, Joey. I made it for you.”
I stutter, struggling to figure out what to say next. How could she not remember my name?
“Uh, Well it’s really good!”
“You are too sweet. Are you hungry? Would you like anything to eat? Let me make you something.”
Uh oh.
I try to decline respectfully, “Oh no. I’m okay.”
“Oh come on sweetie, you are looking a little frail. Let me cook something for you.” She jumps out of her chair and struts towards the kitchen.
Oh no.
No.
No!
What should I do?
Think.
Think fast.
Think!
After slowly setting all the ingredients on the counter, and stalling as long as humanly possible, I grab a large serrated knife and lean forward to slice through a lime.
Instantaneously, my Grandmother’s arm swings across my torso and she guides me, “Always put your hand above the knife while cutting. Don’t want you to slice off a finger.”
“Thank you, Grandma.”
As instructed, I slice through five limes.
“Now hold them above the salmon and slowly squeeze all the way across.”
“Like this.”
“Yes, that’s perfect!”
I slowly drizzle the lime juice across the top of the raw pink fish.
“That’s amazing, hon,” She wraps her arms around me and presses her head into my chest.
A wide smile sweeps across my face as I give her a hug.
“Now let’s place it in the oven and it should be ready by the time your Father gets back from the store. Now take this down. It is important you finish it right. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Leave it in for 25 minutes. Comes out perfect every time!”
Grandma gazes out the window.
The fighting picks up again.
Can she hear them?
The door creaks open and my Grandpa announces, “We are back.”
Entering the kitchen, my Dad sniffs audibly.
The sound of rage clings to my Father’s voice as he snarls, “What’s that smell?”
Oh God.
I scrub the mess off the plates and into the garbage disposal.
From his seat at the table, I hear my Father declare, “That salmon was amazing! Thank you.”
And through the corner of my eye, I see my Dad, my Grandfather, and my Grandmother with their arms wrapped around each other, beaming with joy for a mere moment.
