Tell me a story, Grandma.

As a child, I loved to sit as my grandmother told me stories of her adventures as a young artist in New York; Or her perspective of the Dirty Thirties; Or, especially, the stories of meeting and marrying her true love—Grandpa. But as the years passed, the stories she loved to share seemed to take longer to tell as she was robbed of the details. It pained me to watch her face go vacant as she struggled to find the memories that used to be right at the tip of her tongue.

She fought an unseen force stealing her thoughts, memories and personality for many years. It was subtle at first—a forgotten name, appointments slipping her mind, getting angry or frustrated at small things. I think we all suspected but nobody said anything. In my early twenties, Grandma was hospitalized in order to have various tests done. She finally got the diagnosis we all feared but already knew: Alzheimer’s.

It seemed as soon as she got her diagnosis, she slipped away from us even quicker. Grandpa refused to put her in a home. He wanted to take care of her by himself—like he promised her he would all those years ago on their wedding day. But when Grandpa started getting sick from the stress of taking care of Grandma, we had to step in. We figured out a way to keep Grandma at home, like Grandpa wanted, but still be able to help him so he’d have some time to himself.

My Uncle Craig, Aunt Dorothy and I all took turns at different times of the day and night to sit with Grandma so Grandpa could have a rest. Even if all we did was sit and have tea, the extra company was appreciated. The first time my shift came, butterflies tickled my stomach as I walked up the narrow sidewalk to their house. Would she look the same? Would she remember me? Would things be awkward? Questions swarmed my thoughts as I yanked the heavy screen door open—the way I always did.

As it slammed shut behind me, Grandma called from the living room,
“Who’s that tap-tap-tappin’ on my garden door?” Just like she always did. I smiled and the butterflies calmed. I saw Grandpa in his favorite blue velvet armchair as I walked through the kitchen to the living room.

To finish the routine I answered, “It’s me, Grandma. Coming in to get a bear hug.” Then I went up to her on her couch and gave her a big hug. This time, I held on a bit longer as her fake bear growl echo through her chest.

She cupped my face in her velvety ivory hands—hands that always defied her age—and smiled. “What are you doing here, dumplin’?”

I looked at Grandpa. He looked so tired and he’d caught a cold.

“She’s here to help, Mummy.” Grandpa coughed. I kissed his cheek and grabbed his hand.

“Help? Bah.” Grandma waved her hands at me. “Who are ya helping?”

Her smile faded and the vacant stare tried its best to settle in. She was confused. Grandpa’s eyes welled with tears. He opened his mouth to remind her but I squeezed his hand.

“I’m here for tea, biscuits and a story, Grams.” I said. “Shortbread, right?”
Grandma’s face brightened again. “Well, that’s just dandy. That would be wonderful.”

I made the tea strong, put it in her favorite bone white china cup with her shortbread on the saucer. Just like always. When I came back, Grandpa had fallen asleep in his armchair in the middle of folding the laundry. I gave Grandma her tea, covered Grandpa with a blanket and folded the rest of the towels while Grandma talked.

It still felt the same to me. Her stories were a bit mixed up, she stopped occasionally and needed to be prompted to continue but I knew she was still there. My Grams.

She put her cup down and motioned me over. I went to sit on the floor but she grabbed me and hugged me tighter than she did when I first got there. After a minute I asked, “Grams, are you okay?”

“I know what’s happening to me, you know.” Grams said. “Everyone around her tip toes around it but I know. I forget things. I forget faces—even my own family sometimes. I hate it.”

I didn’t know what to say. I pulled back to look at her. She put her hands on the sides of my face and continued. “One day, I may not be able to say this to you so you just listen. I am proud of who you’ve become and where you’re going. Don’t you let anyone make you feel small, you hear me? You’re a lot like me dumplin’ and I’ll be watchin’ you. Even when I won’t be able to look at you and see you anymore, please know these times will be tucked away in the corners of my mind. Those are the memories I’ll take with me. And that’s how I want you to remember me.”

I cried, burying my face in Grandma’s chest. She stroked my hair and whispered, “You’ve always been my favorite, dumplin. And I’ll never leave you.”

Grandma’s condition deteriorated rapidly after that visit. In fact, she went into the hospital the following week where she slowly faded away from us until she let go. But I remember in the hospital, even when she couldn’t speak anymore and all she could do was stare up at me, I saw a little sparkle in her eye whenever I leaned down to give her a kiss.

Grandma’s stories can now only be heard when I replay them in my mind. On days when I really miss her, I pour myself a cup of strong Earl Grey tea—in her favorite bone white china cup that she left for me—grab a shortbread cookie and close my eyes as her voice fills my ears.

She was right—she’s always with me. Tucked away in the corners of my mind…whenever I need her.

Chynna Laird
(www.lilywolfwords.ca)