The first time my grandmother forgot my name was when I was eight.
She was a retired teacher and one of the smartest people I’ve ever known.
You say you are retiring, but are you really retiring? Before she entered school, she taught me how to write cursive and tell the time. She showed me how a little food coloring can turn regular sugar into “party sugar.” It was the perfect topping for my Cream of Wheat.
I spent most of my weekends with what I called Mama Oak Hill.
I still remember how the black leather seats in her old Mercury Comet burned my bare feet in the summer when we drove to the grocery store or ventured out to Ben Franklin .
She made me bacon and eggs every Saturday morning. I feasted on a tray on the floor watching “The Smurfs” and “Alvin and the Chipmunks” on a large console TV.
On Sunday we walked to church and ate at Wendy’s on the way home. Everyone there knew us, employees and customers alike. Perhaps that’s why they played along as I emptied the tray from table to table and then walked to the closet and grabbed the push vacuum to correct my posture.
(Can the reason why I neglect household chores today is because I worked at Wendy’s for no pay years ago?)
Even now, the food at that Wendy’s is a little better than anywhere else.
My grandmother sold the house where my father was raised shortly before I was born and downsized it to a nice apartment with my own bedroom and an old black and white TV with only channels 4, 6 and 9.
I saw “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” on that television, learned about the audience’s love of tennis, and came to rely on the vaunted reviews of Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert.
I don’t know what time my bedtime was, but my grandmother stayed up much later and inevitably fell asleep in a chair with a newspaper on her lap and black coffee by her side. (I don’t know if she knew I got out of bed and had a cold coffee while she was sleeping.)
I didn’t lose my grandmother the first time she forgot my name. But I felt the first tear in my childhood safety net.
Eight-year-old me had never heard the word Alzheimer’s, so I know it wasn’t what I first thought when I ran out into the hallway crying. She remembered my name as quickly as she forgot it, but I realized something was wrong.
I would like to chronologically describe how her illness progressed, but I was young and it is difficult to know for sure.
All I can say is that it happened very slowly and at the same time.
Within a year we moved from Beckley to Oak Hill to help her. Plus within a year she moved into a nursing home and we were back again.
A long weekend with my grandmother turned into a Sunday lunch followed by a long scenic drive.
She still knew us from several years ago. She handled her own bills herself. She still styled her hair and went to church. She even had admirers in her house. (I’m sure it was one-sided, and if not I’d rather not know.)
I remember asking her a math problem to see if she could solve it. I regret it now. She didn’t mean to embarrass her, but I can see now how frustrating it must have been for her that her answer was right there and out of her reach.
I was probably 16 or 17 when Alzheimer’s disease robbed her of her full ability to communicate. Our Sundays have changed as travel has become an issue.
The day I graduated from high school was not her best day. And my first teacher missed her favorite student receiving her diploma. It hurts so much to say that she hasn’t seen her much since then. She was away at college, so weekends and holidays fell apart.
When my father passed away suddenly when I was in third grade, I drove alone to see him. She was barely able to speak at that point, and she always seemed unaware that she had a visitor.
But it didn’t matter. I had to sit on the floor in front of her chair and put her head on her lap like I did when I was a kid. I thought it important to tell her that her only grandchild had lost her only child.
she said nothing. I didn’t think she would. But there was something on her face. something caught her eye. I think she already knew.
Mama Oak Hill held my hand that day. She stroked my head and messed with her hair for the first time in years.
I think we were comforting each other. I know we were.
She was still there, trapped, but that day she tried with all her might to escape. I totally believe it and am eternally grateful for it.
When I returned home, my mother had quit her job as a nurse to take care of her nanny, who also had Alzheimer’s disease.
By then, Nanny had lost most of her ability to communicate. She tried, but she was confused.
I remember she came to see me that weekend while I was crying on the porch. She told me how much her father loves me. Nanny was still there.
That day, too, she desperately ran away for just a moment.
ll
Mom, Oak Hill, died two years after Dad, and Nanny four years later.
I was watching Mama Oak Hill’s struggle through the eyes of a child. Through the eyes of a young adult, I have seen my mother, widowed at 46, caring for her mother around the clock.
Alzheimer’s is a thief. Steal the beautiful heart of the opponent you attack.
It robs them of family and friends and breaks the hearts of those who love them.
I like to remember my early days with Mamie Oak Hill. she was the best Occasionally, I meet students who agree with my opinion and rave about how she was their “favorite teacher.”
She was mine too.
I have thought a lot about all the things she would have taught me had it not been for Alzheimer’s disease.
But the lessons didn’t end with Alzheimer’s disease. not much.
We now know that Mama Oak Hill and Nanny were still there. Even if no one saw it, heard it, or understood what they were saying.
they were there
Girls with big dreams. Young women who feed their families and take care of their grandchildren.
A teacher who never stopped teaching.
they were always there.
ll
June is Alzheimer’s and Brain Awareness Month. For more information, please visit: www.alz.org.
