Hoping you’ll see what your love means to me.
July 19, 1965.
One of the two dates in my life that hold the most meaning to me. A date where we celebrate the birth of a person so special to me that if they didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be here writing today.
July 19, 1965 is the day my mother was born. And this year, my mom is not here; instead, she is in the Motherland spending time with someone who is the driving force behind my existence.
My grandmother.
On July 19, 1965, my beloved, strong, outspoken, kind, and loving grandmother gave birth to her first child, who would lovingly be referred to as Rinku by family and close friends for the rest of her life.
And on July 19, 2016, 51 years after the birth of her first daughter, my grandmom not only didn’t remember her daughter’s birthday; she didn’t know who her daughter was.
In 2011, my granddad called my mom, and told her that her mother, his wife, was beginning to forget things. It is normal in old age for the brain to function a little slower, but frequent forgetfulness, even of small things, is not normal. Living in the US, it was hard for my mom, or any of us, to really do anything. My granddad pleaded with his other two kids, my aunt and uncle, to take my grandmom to the doctor to get checked out, but he spoke upon deaf ears. They though he was just old and overreacting, despite the fact that my granddad was the most active person in the household he lived in, which included my grandmom, uncle, wife, and their child, and he was still incredibly sharp in his old age. He still pushed for checkups throughout the next year to no avail.
In May 2012, my granddad had a massive stroke and ended up in a coma for about a week. He was watching a major cricket game, and his team had just won when he had his stroke. He was taken off life support a couple days after my mom had arrived to his bedside.
When I think of the way I want to die, I always think of my granddad. He literally died because his team had won a major cricket match. Is that not the coolest thing ever?! If I died after the Eagles won the Superbowl, I’d die happy.
But I digress, that’s not the point I’m trying to make.
My grandparents were married for 60+ years. In a family full of unhappy arranged and love marriages, my grandparents were ones to stand out, to show love and affection all throughout the 18 years I was exposed to their marriage. I crave a love as deep as theirs.
However, because of this deep love, my grandmom broke. And coupled with the memory problems she was experiencing, she did not, and has not, fully recovered from my granddad’s death. She constantly asked where he was, and cried hysterically after being informed each time of his demise.
During this busy trip to the Motherland, my mom took initiative and took my grandmom to the doctor, because she was physically in the presence of my grandmom and was able to see what my granddad was talking about.
My grandmother has Alzheimer’s.
Her progression has been a little faster than normal, most likely attributed to the fact no one would regularly give her the pills she needed to take. My granddad’s death was also such a traumatic event that also sped up the progression of the disease.
Talking on the phone with her for the months and years following his death was like talking to a broken record: she repeated everything, and would eventually start crying because of her frustration over her mental health. She was aware of her forgetfulness and memory loss. And this greatly upset her. And my uncle and his wife would get mad at her forgetting, as if she had control over what was happening to her.
Her disease was progressing, and for years, I pushed to go visit her. I needed to see my grandmom before she forgot who I was.
Finally, in December 2014, I got to go to the Motherland to see her. And upon seeing her, I was relieved that she knew who I was. She had trouble remembering my name, but I couldn’t give less of a fuck: my grandmother still knew I was her eldest granddaughter. In the three weeks I was there, she said my name once, and by the end of my trip, she had forgot my name completely.
In fact, the day after my mother and I left, she had forgotten we even came to visit her.
I cried hard and hugged her close on the day we left, because I knew the next time I saw her, she wouldn’t know who I was.
Sure enough, one year later, when my dad and sister when to go visit her, and my sister FaceTimed me with her, she had no recognized me at all.
And now, 7 months after this FaceTime call, my grandmom doesn’t know who her eldest daughter is.
Physically speaking, my grandmom is in tip top shape, but while she has physical health on her side, she lacks severely mentally. Hearing that she didn’t recognize my mom, her daughter, at all deeply saddened me. My grandmom is the most amazing person on the planet, an idea I’m sure we all share in our respective lives with the people especially special to us.
And amazing people, especially my grandmom, in my case, shouldn’t have to go through this pain. The pain of dying confused and alone, despite having the support of all of your loved ones. The pain of dying with no memory of your life, of not knowing who the fuck you are. I see and hear what my incredible grandmom is going through, and don’t wish this upon even the most disgusting and despicable human being on the planet.
My grandmom is nowhere near the same person I knew and loved growing up. But she is my grandmom, and I love her despite her unknowingness of me, and love her because she is still the most amazing person in the universe, with or without her memory.
I love you, Dida.
Jess B 