Chapter
11 - Fall, 1994
I placed my third baby, Michael’s, car seat on the dining
room table, so Grampy wouldn’t have to stoop to the floor to talk to him. He now walked with a cane and called me ‘That
woman,’ when asking Gram to phone me, or when inquiring when I was coming back
to visit, which I did at least every other day.
He was losing his ability to communicate well, often
showing effort when trying to explain his wants or needs. His speech was faltering, and I got the sense
that he was never satisfied with his own words once they escaped his mouth.
He couldn’t remember names or places, but when he bowed
his head to pray over a meal, the familiar words of thankfulness rolled off his
tongue, right as rain. More than once,
my eyes misted at the thought of being included on such a basic, intimate and
articulate communication between Grampy and his Lord.
My son, Michael, had arrived nearly four years after
Danny, and he was always ready with a dimply smile for Grampy.
“He knows who I am, yes, he knows who I am,” Grampy leaned
in toward the baby, crooning to him in his masculine voice, which made Michael
kick his legs and squeal with delight.
Noting Grampy’s words, I couldn’t help but think how very
important it must be for him to sense that Michael knew him, when the rest of
the world seemed so unfamiliar at times. He didn’t have to grapple for words
when Michael wrapped his little fist around his finger as I had done more than
twenty years before. He would stand and
play with the baby for long stretches of time, both of them sharing joyful,
happy moments, communicating without words.
Following Gram into the kitchen, I asked how things had
been going since Grampy had set out on foot to find a barber the day before.
“He’s restless, dear, and doesn’t understand why we can’t
just let him take the car and go wherever and whenever the mood strikes.”
Grampy had been determined to head back to the place
where he’d been pastor many years ago, even going as far as to buy a second
vehicle to park off the property, ready to use if anyone tried to stop him from
leaving in the first car. We all tread
lightly but firmly in keeping him safe at home, with my husband even offering
to drive Grampy the six hours to get there.
We’d made it a family time, Mark and Grampy in the lead car, with me
trailing behind with the kids in our own vehicle, being sure to remain
unnoticed until we reached our destination.
My time with Grampy began to be filled with attempted
solutions to his everyday problems. He
wanted to figure out how to get seed into a bird feeder, or how to organize his
books’ just so’, on a shelf.
Often, he would show me a solitary faded photo of himself
as a baby, gaining great pleasure from the happy smile on his own, chubby
little face. He’d talk about his
childhood and his brothers and sister while I listened. His stories never became old or redundant to
me because they were a window into the world he was now living, and his spirit
of love and tenacity continued to shine through the confusion and
forgetfulness.
Often, when I would pack up the baby to go home, Grampy
would stand up from his chair and say, “I hope you can leave, soon!”
Knowing he meant
the opposite, I would grin and reply, “I will, Grampy - real soon!”
And so life remained, all of us intertwined somehow in
the delicate dance of dementia, praying, loving and protecting the great man
who had once so selflessly done the same for us.
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