Remembering and Forgetting

It’s early July, and she walks unsteadily into the room on my father’s arm, face filled with joy and eager anticipation. My beautiful grandma exclaims as she catches sight of the baby; it’s the first time she is seeing Rose in person. Her eyes fill with concentration for a brief moment. Then, “Baby Rose,” she says. “Baby Rose.”

 

Though she is too weak to hold my seven-month-old bundle of activity, she watches as I play with Rose on the floor, read books, and change my baby’s diaper. Her eyes fluctuate between childish glee, loving attentiveness, and brief moments of vacancy. The dementia is worsening, but Grandma is still there. For the most part she is lucid, laughing at Rose’s antics and recounting stories from when she brought my dad and uncles home as babies. Watching Rose, she remarks, “They are so beautiful and innocent. I don’t know how anyone could harm them.” 

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In her few moments of vacancy, it is Rose that brings her back by babbling, waving her arms, and smiling. Grandma watches Grandpa hold Rose, tickle her, and tease her with her toys just out of reach. As Rose drifts off for her afternoon nap, we lay her in Grandma’s arms, this lovely woman’s arms finally able to bear the baby’s weight at rest. 

 

At supper she watches us feed Rose cereal and applesauce, Grandma’s applesauce from the freezer, the taste as tart-sweet as all my childhood memories. But she needs prompting to eat and drink for herself. When we leave that evening, she quietly cries in her chair. “I thought I would die before I ever saw her.” She touches Rose’s hands and feet. She gives me a kiss. 

 

“Don’t forget to use your walker, Grandma. Don’t forget to take your medicine. Don’t forget to eat and drink.” 

But she is forgetting.

 

It’s late July, and she shuffles into the room behind her walker. My dad keeps a close eye as he walks slowly behind her. Her face lights up as she catches sight of us, Rose and me waiting in the living room. We sit for a few hours while Dad and Mom clean the house and prepare supper. I keep up a continual flow of conversation, telling my grandparents all about Rose’s current tricks and trials. Grandma is having more trouble with communicating now, drifting in and out, and only tells one story over and over. Rose is rolling onto her back from her belly now, over and over, and she is what calls Grandma back from increasing vacancy. As Rose reaches for toys and shakes her rattle, Grandma’s eyes go from empty to content and amused. “What a beautiful baby,” she remarks. Rose works for her toys, and Grandma laughs.

 

At supper, my Mom cuts up Grandma’s food, and she eats it all with a fair amount of encouragement. My dad feeds Rose her cereal and sweet potatoes. Mom and I help Grandma to her rocker while Grandpa plays with the baby. Grandma sleeps most of the evening but wakes for our departure. We sit the baby on her lap for a couple minutes; Mom supports Rose to help Grandma. “Rose,” Grandma is insistent on remembering her name. “Rose.”

As we prepare to leave, I hold Grandma’s hands. “I love you, Grandma. Rose loves you. You have taught me so much, and I promise to teach Rose, too. I promise to teach her to love Jesus and take care of her family. We all love you, Grandma.” We cry together: a reminder and mourning over what we are losing.

 

I want her to remember and know.

 

But she is forgetting.

 

It’s mid-August, and she is sitting on the porch of the assisted living facility in a wheelchair. She and Grandpa have just moved, but Grandpa is in the hospital with a spinal infection. As we approach, she looks up. “Do you remember who this is?” my father asks. Glancing at all the other ladies on the porch, proud and preening, she reaches out and says with determination, “That’s my Rose.” 

 

It’s clear as the day progresses, Grandma is travelling farther and farther away from us. Rose, eight months old, prefers to sit alone on the ground and is good at picking up small objects. Grandma watches her, but it is often with little or no expression. She seems hazy, unable to complete most thoughts without getting mixed up. Rose eats Cheerios from my dad’s hand; my mom supports Grandma’s cup to encourage her to drink. She is unable to make a decision when the nurse comes for supper orders.

 

When we leave there is no crying this time, not until later in the car with my parents. “I love you, Mom. We will be back soon,” my dad tells Grandma.

 

But I am afraid she has already forgotten.

 

It’s late August, and she is being wheeled out of a women’s support group by another resident. Her bemused face makes it clear she doesn’t recognize what’s happening. “Do you remember who this is?” my father asks, pointing to us. “This is Erin and baby Rose.”

 

She smiles at us, “Erin and Rose.”

 

The afternoon is spent talking to Grandma, but she is mostly far away, carried on the wind of her dementia. A dandelion seed aimless in the breeze. She rarely responds, rarely makes eye contact, and no longer laughs. Then, Rose sits on Grandma’s lap, pulling at the arms of the wheelchair. She turns, they meet eyes, and I see Grandma return. Her arms encircle my baby’s small form, and their hands meet. I wander around the corner to cry at the simplicity and beauty of their wordless communication. It is in silence that Grandma is at home now.

 

My parents, my brother, and I cry as we kiss Grandma goodbye. It will be the last time we visit this place.

 

“Goodbye, Great-Grandma!” I say as I wave Rose’s hand towards her, but she is no longer looking.

 

How much has she forgotten?

 

It’s mid-September, and she is lying quietly in a hospital bed. Her face is bruised from the fall she cannot remember.

 

My dad kisses her forehead. “Hi, Mom. Do you remember me?” 

 

“You’re Johnny,” she replies. 

 

“How about these two?” He points to Rose and me. 

 

Her gaze drifts away, and she never responds. She watches Rose from time to time, attention grabbed by the motion. A word here or there, but no recognition of who we are.

 

“What am I supposed to do today? Who will tell me what I’m doing?” She asks over and over.

 

We try to comfort her, but she is confused. Rose feeds herself crackers and puffs; Dad feeds Grandma vegetable lasagna and beans. His tender hands slowly move small portions. Before every bite, he asks if she wants more. Most times she says nothing in reply, but she opens as he brings the food to her mouth. 

 

Suddenly, I am back in the kitchen in August, watching Dad feed Rose homemade applesauce from Grandma’s freezer, his steady hands bringing manageable bites, checking to make sure she is still enjoying herself. He helps Grandma roll onto her side, and I am back in their living room. Dad is helping Rose roll to the side to reach a toy. He whispers, “I love you, Mom,” and I am back at my own front door, late at night after these visits, and he is whispering, “I love you, Rose.” I am back at Grandma’s front door, Dad holding Rose and Grandma with tears in his eyes as we prepare to leave.

 

We tell Grandma we are going to get some supper. 

 

“What do you want?” she asks. “I’ll see what’s in the kitchen.”

 

My dad explains we are eating out, that she should just rest. My mom comes in and Grandma repeats the question.

 

“How about a pot roast, Mom?” Mom says. “Close your eyes and dream, and tomorrow you can make us a pot roast.” Then quieter, “I love you, Mom.” Grandma closes her eyes.

 

We wander out of the dark room into the hallway. No one says anything. Though we knew this day was coming, it doesn’t make it any easier.

 

She has forgotten us.

 

My mom tells me it is like a protection. The mind is drawing its own curtain closed against the cruelty of loss. My husband tells me the part of her that remembers still exists. It is just waiting for the rest to catch up and be reunited somewhere else, beyond our understanding her and now. My father weeps.

 

Rose won’t remember these days. Or that just days later Grandma forgot even her sons’ names. That she slowly slipped farther into her own mind and rousing her from sleep only produced a vacant stare. She won’t remember when Grandma passes. But I will. I will cherish the precious moments we were together, the gentleness of my father, the strength of my mother, and the tender glances of unspoken love between my small daughter and her great-grandmother when no one and nothing else could reach her. 

 

She forgot, but I will remember. And in memory, I will pass her love and knowledge, her strength and wisdom, and her faith on to Rose. I will remember.