Stretching the Comfort Zone: More Precious Conversations

October 2018

Nearly three years ago, I wrote the original Precious Conversations blog post. Some may say nearly three years is a long time, and I should be thankful. Of course I'm thankful. That goes without saying. Well-meaning individuals say things like, "At least you had her this long." or "You were lucky you knew her at all." Let me just say...don't measure experiences. Each person's experiences and emotions are their own. Just because your experience was different, or you had less time with a grandparent, doesn't mean it hurt more. Be kind and think before you make those comments to anyone about anything, well-meaning or not.

I started this post my last day in Indiana. I went to spend time with my grandparents knowing my grandmother would be moving to a nursing home. I knew I wouldn't finish that day. I needed time to process, a couple of weeks later I revisited and finished.

In a couple of hours, I'm heading to my grandparents' house to spend my very last afternoon with my grandmother, my Memaw, in her home—the only home I've ever known her to live. The weight of this feels like it's crushing me from the inside. It hurts to breathe, and the tears I've kept at bay all week keep threatening to overflow despite my staunch effort to stem the tide.

It will be just her and I for a few hours today. I'm sitting with her while my grandfather and aunt go to a meeting at a nursing home. We all know it's time.

Alzheimer's is a thief.

She's 80 years old...but she's regressing more into a childlike state as time passes. She can no longer walk on her own; it takes two people to move her even a short distance. The simplest tasks are no longer simple.

My grandfather's health is compromised. Two arteries are 90% blocked, and a faulty heart valve adds to the foray. Doctors are not willing to do surgery because the risk to his life is too great...greater than the risk of the ticking time bomb of stroke or heart attack. He can't continue to care for her and give her all she deserves. Watching his heartbreak trying to accept it's time was brutal. I told him he is brave, that it takes far greater strength and courage to admit you need help, to make this decision, than to continue struggling. He's doing this for her not to her. It's true. He's done a wonderful job through so many health issues for a long time. He's been her champion.

On the day I post this, she's tucked away in the nursing home. It's the right thing, but it hurts. I'm heartbroken I'll never pull up the folding chair next to her recliner and look at my favorite photo album, attempting to coax a response from her. I'm heartbroken I won't walk in from the garage door and see her sitting there. Reality says my own grandchildren won't know her. Alzheimer's stole that.

Time is a thief.

Their 64 year anniversary is the 16th of October. Sixty-four years, four children, many grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren...but a million memories. No matter how much time steals her memories, my own will always conjure this image. So many holidays, playing in the upstairs bedroom growing up, the immaculately kept kitchen...

That week was a gift.

The last evening I was in Indiana, I went back to their house with my aunt. She stroked my hair when I laid my head in her lap. She told me she loved me, and at one point she said, "I love you, Jamie Elizabeth." I will never forget that. I've recalled it a thousand times already. Before I left that evening, after my aunt and grandfather had her tucked away safely in the hospital bed, she told me she loved me again. She looked so small, and as I walked away, I wanted to run back, hug her, and not let go. I might be *mumbles* years old, but when I hug her I feel like a child again

I know there will be a time she doesn't remember me, and I know that time is coming quickly. Even during this trip she struggled to remember my name. She would refer to me as "her baby" when I talked to her, and I would tell her I would always be her baby. I reminded her I was the oldest grandchild or her oldest child, and that gave us something special. I gave her the title of Memaw when I was too little to say Grandma and didn't quite pronounce Mamaw, so Memaw she became...and Memaw she is. I'm afraid I'll never hear her say my name again, but I left that house with my heart so full it hurt.

I'll guard the memories.

When Alzheimer's finishes stealing the rest of her memories of me, I'll guard them, I'll hold them close, and I'll cherish them enough for both of us. I stand by what I said in the first Precious Conversations blog post:

I'll gladly endure the sadness if it means she doesn't have to, and I'll look for joy in the conversations we have. I can't change what's to come, so I can only change my perspective. Doesn't mean it's easier - just that it gives me a purpose rather than pointless sadness.

I love you, Memaw. You have a piece of my heart now and always.