In Loving Memory...
**Disclaimer**I have been planning a post like this for a while. But to write anything like this publicly isn't easy for me. That's what this site is about though, letting go of my fears and just saying what I need to. And I'm sorry that this is so depressing, but I've never written about this before. I think it's time.
(for lack of a better segue)...
I see your face in pictures, holding me and Bobby, reading us stories, taking us to the zoo. We're little. Five. Six, maybe. I remember you sitting on the edge of my bed at night until I fell asleep because I was scared that a robber would come in the house and take me away. I also remember when I first noticed that something seemed wrong. No one else's grandmothers called them by the wrong name all the time, even after I corrected you. But I brushed it off. Soon I couldn't understand what you were saying at all. You were frusterated, you had something to say, and no one got it. My mom and I took you to Chincoteague Island, VA with us, brought my best friend Erin along. You called for your parents in the middle of the night, the same thing happened at our cabin in the woods. Then the bombshell. Mom came in one night crying, I must have been ten, telling me that she couldn't hold it in anymore. You had Alzheimer's, you were losing your memory, but she assured me that you loved me. A lot. Soon my family put you in a home. We visited every weekend. You'd come up to us dancing, a huge grin on your face, ready to give your grandkids a huge bearhug. I brought you baby dolls to take care of during the day. The Washington Post did a piece on your assisted living home, and there you were in the paper, your blue eyes fixated on the doll in your hands. I still have that article, I thought you were famous. We moved you around a lot, no home seemed to make the cut, but your smile was always there. Inside I hoped that a part of you still remembered me. Years pass by, now I'm 14 and you're in a wheelchair now. You don't talk anymore, my grandfather feeds you because you can't move on your own. You always seem to be staring off into the distance. Sometimes I get a smile when you see me coming, other times I don't. I always give you my hand and we sit there for a while. Your grip is like steel, and it takes a while for me to pull my hand away. I always wonder what you're thinking about. Your eyes aren't quite as blue as they used to be. A year later, you joined God upstairs. I couldn't be there when it happened, a lot of the other residents were sick with pneumonia and my mom wouldn't let me come say goodbye. I sat up all night, waiting for the call. I think maybe some guilt has stuck with me because I didn't fight harder to come see you, same with my grandfathers when the time came for them. But the worst part is that until my brother pulled out the baby videos last week, I couldn't remember what your voice sounded like, or how you looked when you walked, anything. I heard you say my name on the tape and I started crying. And now, I haven't been able to get you off my mind. So...I wrote this.
(for lack of a better segue)...
I see your face in pictures, holding me and Bobby, reading us stories, taking us to the zoo. We're little. Five. Six, maybe. I remember you sitting on the edge of my bed at night until I fell asleep because I was scared that a robber would come in the house and take me away. I also remember when I first noticed that something seemed wrong. No one else's grandmothers called them by the wrong name all the time, even after I corrected you. But I brushed it off. Soon I couldn't understand what you were saying at all. You were frusterated, you had something to say, and no one got it. My mom and I took you to Chincoteague Island, VA with us, brought my best friend Erin along. You called for your parents in the middle of the night, the same thing happened at our cabin in the woods. Then the bombshell. Mom came in one night crying, I must have been ten, telling me that she couldn't hold it in anymore. You had Alzheimer's, you were losing your memory, but she assured me that you loved me. A lot. Soon my family put you in a home. We visited every weekend. You'd come up to us dancing, a huge grin on your face, ready to give your grandkids a huge bearhug. I brought you baby dolls to take care of during the day. The Washington Post did a piece on your assisted living home, and there you were in the paper, your blue eyes fixated on the doll in your hands. I still have that article, I thought you were famous. We moved you around a lot, no home seemed to make the cut, but your smile was always there. Inside I hoped that a part of you still remembered me. Years pass by, now I'm 14 and you're in a wheelchair now. You don't talk anymore, my grandfather feeds you because you can't move on your own. You always seem to be staring off into the distance. Sometimes I get a smile when you see me coming, other times I don't. I always give you my hand and we sit there for a while. Your grip is like steel, and it takes a while for me to pull my hand away. I always wonder what you're thinking about. Your eyes aren't quite as blue as they used to be. A year later, you joined God upstairs. I couldn't be there when it happened, a lot of the other residents were sick with pneumonia and my mom wouldn't let me come say goodbye. I sat up all night, waiting for the call. I think maybe some guilt has stuck with me because I didn't fight harder to come see you, same with my grandfathers when the time came for them. But the worst part is that until my brother pulled out the baby videos last week, I couldn't remember what your voice sounded like, or how you looked when you walked, anything. I heard you say my name on the tape and I started crying. And now, I haven't been able to get you off my mind. So...I wrote this.
posted by haze at 8:12 PM
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