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.