Grandfather’s Heartbreaking Dementia Journey

The wind gently striking the glass window wakes me with a familiar old song.

This isn't my ceiling.

It's low. Speckled. Slowly and groaning, the fan turns. They have painted the walls pale green, like in institutions where people wait for something. For forgetting. For leaving.

My legs are wrapped in sheets that are as hard as cardboard. You can smell a bit of citrus and then a hint of something that's sour-smelling. I turn my head. A nightstand. A bottle of pills. A water glass half full.

And a photograph.

In the piece, a man dressed in navy is seen facing forward with a small boy by his side who has a balloon. You can tell he's not sure if his smile is genuine from the look in his eyes. They ache with familiarity.

Is that… me?

As soon as I have the thought, someone is walking down the hallway. Then a voice.

Female. Mid-thirties. Loud laughter with some stuttering to it.

As the door opens, its hinges give off a faint rustling sound.

"Morning, Grandpa," she says.

She's slender. Her red hair is tied back into a bun. Eyes that seem tired and with eyeliner smudged around them. She has a cheery walk about her, and that paper bag seems like a gift for some reason.

I blink at her. My throat tightens. "I've never met you before," I respond.

Her facial expression shows a brief hesitation. "It's me, Nora."

That means nothing.

She comes closer, too close. You went through a tough night, so take it easy on yourself. The nurses shared that you kept asking for someone in the room…. Ruth?"

I grip the sheets. My heart thunders. "Where is she?" I rasp. "Where's Ruth?"

She hesitates. "Ruth was your wife, Grandpa. She passed away. Almost three years ago."

"No." I shake my head. Nope, we were going to the grocery store. She was picking apples."

Beside the bed, the girl kneels. Her hand lightly but firmly touches mine. 

"Now you're in Vermont," she murmurs. Since January, you have been residing with me. Last year, you received a diagnosis. Remember? 

However, I don't. 

And the word "diagnosed" sticks to me like a stain when she says it. 

Dementia.

Where names formerly resided, the word reverberates. 

I attempt to stand up, but my body fails me. The universe crumbles, and my knees fold. Before I fall to the ground, Nora grabs me. She has the scent of yesterday's coffee and lavender shampoo. 

I mutter, "I don't belong here." 

She doesn't dispute. 

I discovered a journal in the drawer next to my bed that night. Thick, deliberate strokes are used to write the first page.

Franklin is your name. 

Your age is seventy-seven. 

Ruth, your wife, is dead. 

Nora, your granddaughter, lives with you. 

You have dementia. 

You're secure. 

I read it three times. 

I then tear it out. 

Therefore, it doesn't feel real. 

When I wake up, the room is sliced apart by sunshine. Everything falls into place for a time. 

Nora talks about the birds outside while she pours coffee. I chuckle. I recall her wearing superhero capes to the dinner table and having crooked teeth when she was 10 years old. I remember Ruth humming in the kitchen, her voice faltering just before she burst into tears. 

Across the table, I hold Nora's hand. I informed her, "I'm here today."

She has glistening eyes. "Grandpa, I understand." 

However, the fog returns around lunchtime. 

Someone else's dream inspired the sandwich on my plate. I nibble on the crust. 

"Eat," Nora says softly. 

"Where's Ruth?" I enquire. 

She shuts her eyes. 

When I asked her that, she no longer responded. 

I occasionally wake up yelling. The walls are shifting sometimes. That darkness is engulfing me. I occasionally encounter a man with crazy eyes in my room who claims to be Nora's husband. I accuse him of lying. I struck him once. He didn't even speak louder. It kept me until I started crying. 

At night, I hear them murmuring behind the door. For example, "He's declining." We have no other choice—full-time assistance.

So they send me off. 

To a place that smells of boiling peas and disinfectant. The corridors are silent. Forgetting is pervasive in the air. 

People who stare at the TV as if it owed them something are in the same room as me. Hazel, the woman I met, is adamant that we are in Paris. She refers to me as "Claude." I gave her permission. It's more convenient than debating. 

I get another notebook from them. 

I keep it this time. 

Every morning, I read the first page. 

Franklin is your name. 

You're secure. 

I don't believe it most of the time. Nevertheless, I read it.

I recall Ruth's appearance on a Tuesday in the snow, her scarf flapping in the wind like a red flag. She sang a song I remember from the evening we brought Nora home from the hospital. I can still smell the cinnamon and pancakes, and I can still feel Sunday. 

The recollections are sharp. Too sharp. I sob until I get something from the nurse that makes everything better. 

These days, time bends in odd ways. 

I am eight on some days. I am eighty on some days. I forget where I'm meant to sleep and chat to mirrors. I sob into Hazel's shoulder because I think she's Ruth. She pats my hair and hums an off-key tune. 

I occasionally observe the rain. Rain is something I recall.

It meant something once—newness, a start. 

It's just water now. 

Every week, I get to see Nora. She brings cookies. She shows me her baby boy's photos. I give a nod. I grin. As soon as she exits the room, I forget. 

Not always, however. 

Sometimes, I take her by surprise. 

I recollect the moment you lost your front teeth. 

She wipes her eyes and laughs. "You informed me that the Tooth Fairy paid more for teeth that were missing." 

I smile. She did. For you, at least. 

We speak about nothing, which is everything, while we sit by the window. 

I touch her hand before she walks away. 

I respond, "Just remind me that I loved you if I disappear again." 

She squeezes my fingers. "Always."

That night, I looked in the mirror.

A stranger looks back.

His shoulders stoop like he's been carrying loss for too long. His eyes are pale and watery. His lips tremble.

"I miss her," I say.

The stranger nods.

And I know, somehow, he misses her too.