Eighty-Four

Rebecca Jo Vahalik Schwencke

My Grandmother turned 84 today. We celebrated in our usual fashion. We visited her nursing home, rented out the little party room, had some pie and tried to talk over each other. My Grandmother just sat there, barely saying anything. She doesn't say much these days when we are in a large gathering. And, sadly, that's the setting I end up seeing her most in.

She has dementia, among other things. Something my Papa (her husband) suffered from as well. Over the years I have watched her go from retelling memories and recognition to having to introduce myself each time we walk in to a room now. It's not as if she doesn't know who I am, I think. I'm in there, in a memory, from even a few years ago, I'm sure of it. But this Colleen. The present Colleen. She doesn't know me. And she doesn't know KT either. And that part makes me sad.

Getting old is a bitch. And I mean that in the most sincere way. It's hard to take care of someone with dementia, and I sympathize for my Mother who has to deal with her caretakers on what seems like a weekly basis. It's hard to deal with someone who is here, but not. The nursing home is a good place for her to be, supervised, with assisted care, but it's depressing to visit those places. I can admit as much. It makes me sad to think that one day we all may be in a similar place, though I pray my mind holds out so I can avoid it.

I hold images of my Grandparents in my mind that I will forever look back on. And they are happy ones. Of camping. Of Easters and Christmases. Of sick days, when Grandma would put me on the couch and let me watch The Neverending Story. Tootie, their poodle. Canyon Lake. Birds and squirrels. And Grandma, so patiently letting me do her hair.

I want to remember them that way. But I don't want to forget that they need to be surrounded by their family now. And that's the hardest balance to find it seems.

Stole this from Mom's blog. My Grandmother around age 15, maybe?