Dementia is such a debilitating thing to watch. The slow decay of the mind. The significant changes in personality traits. The stages of grief a person goes through when they realize they are losing themselves. Sometimes, the shutting down of the body until slowly a person becomes entombed by their own skin and bones. Living fragile for years because their heart and their lungs want to outlast the rest of them.
“White matter.” It’s what it is labeled on a CT scan. “Small vessel ischemic changes.” Scientific words to say that for a number of possible reasons this person no longer gets enough oxygen to the brain. “Cell death.” That’s what it looks like to the radiologist.
However, what you see in person is more of a breakdown of the human condition. Adaptation to the loss of dignity. Until dignity is no longer recognize-able at all. Until the person doesn’t even know they have lost it.
I fluff the hair of my grandfather in the manner I always have.
“How’s it going ya goofball?” I say teasingly.
His eyes stare through me as his lips mouth unreadable things to the air, his voice barely a whisper. He lays bedridden, a pillow between his knees, a chuck beneath him, his body lifted and wedged to the side to help his bones from wearing through his skin. The smell of Bengay wafts towards me. I dab away at a small drop of the chocolate protein shake I’ve been feeding him that has dribbled down his chin.
He looks at me for a moment and I think maybe he might see me.
“Mary?” his voice the softest croak.
My grandmother’s name.
“No grandpa, it’s me, Jessie.” I say softly and kiss him on the forehead.
It’s been a long time since I’ve come to terms with the fact that he is neither here nor there. Trapped somewhere in between the past and the present. Lost but living.
I turn the channel to one of my grandmother’s old favorite sitcoms and settle down, content with holding his hand.
It’s a dangerous thing To play loyal Always tried and true
It’s a dangerous game To choose others Before ever choosing you
It’s a dangerous choice To not value Yourself above the rest
It’s a dangerous world Constantly putting Your loyalty to the test
Would it be so traitorous To start making Choices meant only for you?
Would it be so traitorous To start living The life you were meant to?
I remember Grandma. It was cold when they called me out of class. Wrapped me in a coat. Sent me to the car. The one I was riding in, with its engine perpetually moving me forward, when I learned that you would never move again. My heart stilled, frozen as the world passed in a blur around me.
Blame stood in every corner of the room that day. It roared and vibrated its chords in the throat. It rolled, wet and slippery off the cliff of every tongue and pointed, like a spear, from the end of so many fingertips.
But my heart knew nothing of blame- all of us guilty - knowing that we wash our hands with “I’m sorry.” - try to keep them clean - yet, in the end, we are all the blame for something. Leaving our dirty little handprints on each other sticky with the residue of hurt.
In my imagination I sit on the porch where they found your body while the world screams blame around us - I hold your hands clutched to your chest where you burst and tore apart (a heart attack they called it)- life having already left from behind your terror stricken eyes - and listen as all of the pressure this world has pressed inside of you releases.
In the end, blame is inconsequential. Shivering more from this quake of emotion inside of me then the cold - I close your eyes. - and let the blame fall like the snow, a blanket around us.
“It’s not abandonment.” I tell myself as we pull up the long drive of Embark Residential where I am admitting my daughter. I’ve cried almost the entire drive. She has cried a little too but I can feel her putting on a brave face.
It’s been a year now of trying to find her help. Different therapies, hospitalizations, intensive outpatient programs. A year spent making appropriate boundaries with toxic family members. A year of my own therapy. A year spent wading through the aftermath of trauma, trying to find a way out from beneath the sludge of it.
But nothing has worked. I mean it did for a little while. But now it’s as if she’s taking all of the bad choices she could possibly make and ticking them off one by one. Drug abuse…check. Failing school…check. 10 day out of school suspension…check. Sneaking people into the house while I’m at work…check.
When she sits across from me and cries, telling me that she only feels better when she smokes the weed…I believe her. I think to myself how hard it must be. To be a teenager. To have all of the hormones. To have been through this level of trauma. To not have a father figure. To have a mother who is stuck in her own varying levels of depression.
When we pull up to the house the therapist is waiting. Warm smiles, welcoming vibe, helping hands. Here let me accommodate you is the attitude we are given. And it is nice. But I feel the wall going up between us as we sit on that couch and begin to talk about the reasons we are here. I feel her shift slightly away from me. I feel the air between us change. I know she’s angry. I understand her anger.
When we hug goodbye it’s short and clipped. I kiss her on the forehead and promise to bring the dog to visit her as soon as I’m allowed to.
“It’s not abandonment.” I tell myself not too surely as I drive back down that long drive now alone with our dog Raina. This time I can’t stop the sobs from coming.
“Get down from there right this second, you headache of a person!”
My mother’s nagging voice droned in my head as she shouted from below. She was standing outside in her robe, the crusty remains of yesterday’s makeup still clinging to her face as she held one hand above her brows shielding her eyes from the morning sun.
I sat dangling my legs over the rusted gutter of our single level home, contemplating in what way I should grant her request. Finally, I stood and dramatically spit my gum to the side before running and doing a backflip onto the lowered roof of the garage. In finale, I did a tuck and roll onto the pile of dried leaves I had raked the day before. Standing proudly, I did a little bow before flashing a frustrating grin.
My mother threw her arms in the air and yelled in exasperation, me mouthing her words along with her.
“Ugh! I swear to god Xavier! Why do you do this to me? Why cant you just do normal teenage shit?!”
“Don’t be such an NPC, mom.” I grinned and kissed her on the cheek, visibly watching as her anger melted away.
“Seriously though! You are going to give me a stroke kid.” She ruffled my hair. “Now come on. I’ve made your favorite breakfast. Cinnamon toast.”
I held the door for her. “But I wanted waffles!” I whine annoyingly and give her my best pout face.
“Boy if you don’t…!” My laughter cut her off as the door closed behind us.
