Grandma
On Saturday, I took some time to do a little dyeing for my dyeorama pal. The yarn turned out beautifully, and all weekend I had been writing a post in my head about the experience that I could enter into the whiplash competition Monday night.
Last night after work, my parents called me. My Grandma died yesterday morning. I didn't want to write about yarn anymore.
Grandma had been in a nursing home for almost ten years. I remember that I was in highschool when she and my grandfather were both diagnosed with age-related dementia: he had Alzheimer's disease, she had a less well-defined dementia that still proved devestating to her personality and ability to care for herself. I did a project for my biology class on Alzheimer's.
Since I moved to Nova Scotia I've only been to see Grandma once, when we were back home in February. Richard and I went to help with her dinner. She was a little crabby, and as usual, slow to eat. She'd always been one to "eat like a bird" and losing herself only made things worse.
Even though she didn't know who her family was, she recognized us somehow. She would be comfortable around the staff and her own family; strangers agitated her. The first time I brought Richard to meet her, she would stop mid-conversation to ask who he was.
Once, about a year and a half ago, we went as a family to go hang out with her. I brought my knitting, and a red, round tape measure with me. When I set the tape measure on the table, she curled her fingers together and tried to flick it. Crokinole! Even though she wasn't able to have a conversation with us, we had one last game as a family. Even though she didn't know where she was, who I was, little pieces of her personality would suddenly shine through: a knowing smile, a wink, a game of crokinole.
Grandma always had african violets, and this may have influenced my choice of houseplants. This week, after a winter of dormancy, my violets are blooming again.
I'm sad she's gone, but in a way my grieving has been done already. I grieved when she began to lose herself, as she lost pieces of herself, and her independence. This is the most terrible thing about dementia, that you lose the person you love slowly and inevitably.
But for now, I will remember Grandma before the nursing home, Grandma who encouraged me to knit and crochet, Grandma who taught me how to play "go fish" and crokinole, Grandma who kept african violets in her kitchen.
Last night after work, my parents called me. My Grandma died yesterday morning. I didn't want to write about yarn anymore.
Grandma had been in a nursing home for almost ten years. I remember that I was in highschool when she and my grandfather were both diagnosed with age-related dementia: he had Alzheimer's disease, she had a less well-defined dementia that still proved devestating to her personality and ability to care for herself. I did a project for my biology class on Alzheimer's.
Since I moved to Nova Scotia I've only been to see Grandma once, when we were back home in February. Richard and I went to help with her dinner. She was a little crabby, and as usual, slow to eat. She'd always been one to "eat like a bird" and losing herself only made things worse.
Even though she didn't know who her family was, she recognized us somehow. She would be comfortable around the staff and her own family; strangers agitated her. The first time I brought Richard to meet her, she would stop mid-conversation to ask who he was.
Once, about a year and a half ago, we went as a family to go hang out with her. I brought my knitting, and a red, round tape measure with me. When I set the tape measure on the table, she curled her fingers together and tried to flick it. Crokinole! Even though she wasn't able to have a conversation with us, we had one last game as a family. Even though she didn't know where she was, who I was, little pieces of her personality would suddenly shine through: a knowing smile, a wink, a game of crokinole.
Grandma always had african violets, and this may have influenced my choice of houseplants. This week, after a winter of dormancy, my violets are blooming again.
I'm sad she's gone, but in a way my grieving has been done already. I grieved when she began to lose herself, as she lost pieces of herself, and her independence. This is the most terrible thing about dementia, that you lose the person you love slowly and inevitably.
But for now, I will remember Grandma before the nursing home, Grandma who encouraged me to knit and crochet, Grandma who taught me how to play "go fish" and crokinole, Grandma who kept african violets in her kitchen.
posted by Valerie at 8:38 a.m.
1 Comments:
Valerie, I'm very sorry about your loss. I remember when I lost my Grams how hard it was. I'll keep you in my thoughts and prayers.
-Dye-o-Rama Pal-
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