GUILFORD — In September of 2000, Beth Wood was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease.
It began with simply forgetting to turn off the stove after she was done cooking one of her famous meals, or needing a reminder of her son's phone number.
Then, as most Alzheimer patients do, she began to forget to eat or bathe. She would wake up unaware of where she was. She'd imagine people were stealing things, simply because she could not remember where they had previously been. Her day-to-day life became full of stress and struggle; her own grandchildren went unrecognized.
Beth Wood is my grandmother.
Almost 10 years later, all I see is a frail old woman barely holding onto reality. I see a child who whimpers and whines because she doesn't know what else to do. And above all else, I see the remains of someone I had once loved so dearly.
I understand how that sounds; I am openly saying I no longer feel love for my grandmother.
But let me explain - I still care.
It's the way you feel about your first dog after it passes away, or the way you look back on an old boyfriend whom you once loved. I loved my grandmother, but in these more recent years she has become someone else. I do not blame her, and I do not resent her for it.
I simply acknowledge that my grandmother is gone, and I must take care of what she left behind because I owe her that.
* * *
When I was younger, I spent every Monday at my grandma's. It was the one day both my parents worked, and she was the perfect babysitter. I had no grandfather, so it was always just her and me on these days.
Everything was better at Grandma's; I have never tasted a grape juice Popsicle quite like the ones she would make. I was always promised my favorite meal (usually chicken nuggets or a cheese quesadilla) exactly when I wanted it. She loved me, and I loved her right back.
The afternoons were spent out in her garden. Now let me tell you, this garden was something to brag about. At first glance, the tangled vines, stems, leaves, and plump fruit and veggies gave the area what my grandma called an “out-of-control vibe.”
And I'll be honest, it was a mess - but it was her mess. She understood its crazy knots and interweaves, and could find exactly what she was looking for in a heartbeat.
I remember sitting cross-legged, my hands resting behind me buried in the cool soil. I would watch as my grandma weeded and plucked her way around the perimeter, and slowly worked into the interior - all the while chattering away to me.
It was like watching someone cleaning a home; nothing was fully satisfying for her until she reached the final weed that needed to be pulled or the last tomato that needed to be picked, and the garden was clean for the day. Then she'd stand up and observe all the work she had done.
I knew what to do when I saw this; I'd get up from my sitting spot, brush bits of the earth off my little sundress or overalls, and pad my way over to her.
“Some fine work we did today, huh, girl?” she'd say, placing her hand on my head.
“It looks better than yesterday,” I'd observe.
“Sure does. How 'bout a Reese's?”
“Two?”
“Only if you don't tell your father!”
And off we'd go, leaving the garden behind us for the time being. Once the old red door of her familiar home would screech open and my toes relaxed over the cool tiled floor, a Reese's peanut butter cup would be plopped into my hand without any reminders of the promise.
“You'll get the second after dinner,” she'd say. “What will it be?”
Again, I'd find myself sitting and watching her. She'd prepare my dinner to order as I lay spread out on the peeling linoleum. Her grey hair curled around a sun-kissed face, and her callused hands were always busy at work.
Activities would vary during the in-between moments of gardening and munching; on the best days, we'd simply dance.
I'd watch as my grandmother cranked up the radio, and she'd hop and swing to the music. She'd take my hands and twirl me around. I'd skip about the old kitchen, using dishtowels as flags, all the while being cheered on by my grandma.
When I'd get too tired, I'd collapse on the floor and rest, but Grandma never tired. She danced and danced, her grey hair splaying wildly around and her hands above her head, waving at the sky. Her energy was infectious, and I couldn't stay down for long. She'd pick me up, spin me around, and bump my hips.
I felt loved, and rightly so - Beth Wood adored me.
* * *
In 2000, a month before she was diagnosed, my family took me away from her to my current home in Vermont. I remember missing her, but knowing she was not gone forever. I'd receive letters from her, all starting with, “My dearest Holly,” and ending with “Love forever.” When arthritis plagued her fingers, she would call. During one of these phone conversations, I learned she wasn't gardening as much as usual.
“I forget to some days,” she'd say, and my heart would ache.
It was 11 p.m. when my uncle called us, telling us my grandmother had called 911 because she was convinced someone had broken into her home and stolen from her - but it hadn't happened. This was when, after a doctor's examination, we were informed of her mental health. Doctors advised her to move in with one of her children, or that her family place her in a nursing home.
I remember waking up in the middle of the night and hearing my parents arguing with my extended family about what to do.
We could not take her, as our home was too small. My aunt couldn't take her because she did not have the money or time to care for her. My oldest uncle finally said he would take on the responsibility, as my grandmother was a summertime woman, and my uncle lived in San Diego.
“It's best for her to be in a place she can stay outside year-round,” the adults would reason. They were right, but the idea of taking Grandma out of her home where she'd spent her whole life and flying her across the country broke the hearts of my father and his siblings.
However, it was done.
* * *
And now, almost 10 years later, that is where my grandma still stays. I spend a week every summer taking care of her and giving my uncle and his family a break. Every year, the stress of the trip increases; I watch her progress further and further into the cruel and unforgiving stages of dementia.
In the beginning, during some lucid moments, she would cup my face in her hands and cry, taking in everything she could about how I've changed. I cried, too.
However, slowly, these moments became fewer and fewer until finally, they were no more.
This past summer, she spent every moment of every day confused and unsure of everything. She knew nothing of who I was. But when I could calm her, she'd animatedly tell me tales of my younger self.
“Oh, my granddaughter Holly is a mischievous little girl!” she'd tell me, and I'd smile, knowing the truth in that statement.
It hurt too much for me, though, to keep hoping desperately for her mind to reach back into reality. It took an emotional toll on me greater than anything I'd been exposed to yet in my life.
So, in a silent vow to the grandmother I knew in my memories, with no sense of remorse or sadness, I took care of this dying woman. I did it for myself, however selfish that may have been. In this way, it was easier for me to deal with the constant asking of, “Where am I?” and “Who are you?” In this way, I distanced myself.
* * *
On my last night alone with her, I cried.
I cried for the woman I had lost, so long ago, to this awful disease. Though she did not understand why I was crying or who I even was, she patted my back and told me it would be all right. A couple minutes later, she forgot where she was and left me alone in the empty kitchen. Suddenly, I heard music coming from her room. Assuming the music would confuse her, I pulled myself together and followed the sound, knowing I should turn it off.
The door to her room was cracked open slightly.
I remember this moment as though it were yesterday; I remember feeling apprehensive about looking inside, afraid of what I'd find. I didn't think I could watch my grandmother, once so strong and loving, cry from fright and general confusion anymore. Part of me willed myself to walk away and just let the music play, but I peered into the room.
My grandma was neither crying nor confused.
She was dancing.