Monday
Nov292010
The Pain Of Living Breaks My Heart
Monday, November 29, 2010
My grandfather has dementia. He is 92.
He is at that stage now where he is aware that he is faltering. He feels helpless to make decisions and cannot follow complex social situations. Some days, he cannot remember how to dress properly. He is afraid of making mistakes. He lives in fear of behaving in any way that would have him taken away from my grandmother.
Over the weekend, people tried to cajole him into eating food he did not want. He was carted this way and that until he was tired. Near the end of the evening, he was sitting in a chair on one side of the living room facing a rabble of family. Everyone was talking at once and laughing and moving around. I was exhausted and could barely make sense of them, so I sat down next to my grandfather.
"I can't follow any of this," he said, as a way to apologize, as a way to tell me I could go.
"I can't either," I said. "They're very loud."
And then, quite uncharacteristically, I grabbed for his hand. I don't touch my family very often. He stumbled with his, unsure what to do. When I was a little kid, he would always blush when I hugged him. He was rarely demonstrative.
I pushed our fingers clumsily in between each other and squeezed our hands together in a joint knot.
"I just want to sit next to you," I said. "I love you. We don't have to talk."
I stroked the bone at his wrist for a moment with my finger.
This quiet man – the one who had prayed over the holiday meals of my childhood and whom I had watched sort tools in his shop with the earth floor, whose stoic expression and shy manner kept me at a respectful distance – this man shuddered with heavy emotion. His shoulder rose and shook and fell against my arm.
I wanted to carry him somewhere quiet and spoon with him in the dark.
This part in which he knows and is still so lost is too cruel. This part that makes us say goodbyes not because anyone is leaving but because someone is helpless against losing himself after a long life makes me doubt. How can there be meaning here when the brain that records it is taken away?
We won't remember. I want to think that memory is important, but I increasingly doubt its worth.
While everyone else was putting on coats and heading out to cars, my grandmother pushed my grandfather's old shoes onto his feet, jambing them down onto his toes and over his heels.
She paused and slouched and let the laces dangle in her fingers.
My uncle came to tie the other shoe, but something had already broken in me and drifted.
He is at that stage now where he is aware that he is faltering. He feels helpless to make decisions and cannot follow complex social situations. Some days, he cannot remember how to dress properly. He is afraid of making mistakes. He lives in fear of behaving in any way that would have him taken away from my grandmother.
Over the weekend, people tried to cajole him into eating food he did not want. He was carted this way and that until he was tired. Near the end of the evening, he was sitting in a chair on one side of the living room facing a rabble of family. Everyone was talking at once and laughing and moving around. I was exhausted and could barely make sense of them, so I sat down next to my grandfather.
"I can't follow any of this," he said, as a way to apologize, as a way to tell me I could go.
"I can't either," I said. "They're very loud."
And then, quite uncharacteristically, I grabbed for his hand. I don't touch my family very often. He stumbled with his, unsure what to do. When I was a little kid, he would always blush when I hugged him. He was rarely demonstrative.
I pushed our fingers clumsily in between each other and squeezed our hands together in a joint knot.
"I just want to sit next to you," I said. "I love you. We don't have to talk."
I stroked the bone at his wrist for a moment with my finger.
This quiet man – the one who had prayed over the holiday meals of my childhood and whom I had watched sort tools in his shop with the earth floor, whose stoic expression and shy manner kept me at a respectful distance – this man shuddered with heavy emotion. His shoulder rose and shook and fell against my arm.
I wanted to carry him somewhere quiet and spoon with him in the dark.
This part in which he knows and is still so lost is too cruel. This part that makes us say goodbyes not because anyone is leaving but because someone is helpless against losing himself after a long life makes me doubt. How can there be meaning here when the brain that records it is taken away?
We won't remember. I want to think that memory is important, but I increasingly doubt its worth.
While everyone else was putting on coats and heading out to cars, my grandmother pushed my grandfather's old shoes onto his feet, jambing them down onto his toes and over his heels.
She paused and slouched and let the laces dangle in her fingers.
My uncle came to tie the other shoe, but something had already broken in me and drifted.
Reader Comments (36)
There is a caved-in spot in my chest where this just sat. It's going to stay a little while, I imagine.
love and love and love.
All we can do is what we can, with all the love we can muster.
This is perfect.
I want to buy your book, please.
This is beautiful, in all the heartbreak, it's really beautiful. I was witness to the same events with my grandparents, the most important people of my lifetime. It's pain like none other, but that's how you know the depth of what's most real to you, I think.
I'm grateful I got to read this.
My grandmother will be 90 in January and is already lost to dementia. It breaks my heart. I do however think that it would have killed my grandfather. He passed in 1990.
She's the last of my grandparents.
Thank you for this.
When we went through this with my Great Grannie, I was that asshole teenager that didn't pay enough attention, didn't spend enough time, didn't stop to *think* - it never occurred to me until reading this that she very likely was in that place of knowing, but still being lost. I think my heart just broke all over again.
xoxo
We are going through the same thing with my FIL, who is 90. Mom passed in September and some days he remembers that and some days he doesn't. It is heartbreaking and my husband is so sad all the time. Whenever Dad asks for people who have died, we tell him again that they're gone, and he cries. I'm starting to wonder if it would be better to just say, "Oh...they've gone to the store, they'll be back later."
Sad and beautiful. Thanks for sharing it.
I lost my last grandparent not that long ago, and this was what the last couple of years were like. Peace will come.
Both of my grandparents had dementia before they died and it was tragic and awful to witness. No one deserves to finish out their life reduced in that manner.
Heartbreaking but beautifully told. My father is going through this at 82. It is a truly cruel disease.
How kind of you to do that small thing for him. Big thing really. Dementia is a horrible, mystifying illness. Snatching people away but leaving bodies to carry on and the caretakers no relief. Very poignant writing.
gah. i'm so sorry. i watched this happen to both my grandmothers, and to my mother. it is vicious and mean and unfathomable.
I'm here in this moment with you. Both in your writing and in life. Oh love. It is too much sometimes, isn't it? XO
I think dementia in all its forms is the cruelest of conditions. Especially when I look into their eyes and see my loved one looking out but confusedly. I don't want this. It scares me on a personal level when i realize I can't remember things as quickly or easily as I once did.
I could read this post over and over. Relating to it is the hardest part. Looking into my brother's eyes is heartbreaking. He is 55..I am 64. It takes everything within me to keep from running...where?..I don't know maybe back to our childhood and wanting to start over and praying the results would be different. Just somewhere where I don't have to see that look..one of despair, frustration and sometimes just..gone. But, I will stay by his side and will forever let him know how much I love him. How could this be happening to such a sweet, loving, caring man? I keep looking for answers that are just not there. A stroke makes it very difficult for him to find the words he wants to say, memory loss makes it impossible. Losing our parents, then his only child almost killed him but yet he lives on to face this. What lies ahead for this beautiful man.....My heart breaks for you and your Grandpa as it does for me and my brother.
This is the thing about being a hyper-feeling person, as it were. You get to experience the highest highs, but you also hurt more often as you see every little thing along the way. It's wonderful, and horrible, all rolled into one. I struggle every day with my ability, or inability, to let myself feel those highs, and lows. It's just so...much.
Getting older, dementia, dying, it all hurts. And yet this post is beautiful, and touching and just perfect.
My grandmother is 79, lost to dementia. Denies that there is anything wrong with her. She doesn't recognise us anymore and it's hard having to deal with it everyday... :(
My heart goes out to you. My mother suffered from early onset alzhiemer's for the past 15 years. She was physically healthy but mentaly not. It became difficult to spend time with her as we lost her bit by bit. When she passed in May we consoled oursleves with the fact that the shell was now gone but my mother hadn't been with us for years. I remember the earlier stages when she would look at us with confusion and fear at the realization that she didn't know what she knew she should...it was very difficult for all of us but most of all her. Little moments like what you describe are what kept us and her going.
Unspeakably beautiful.
There is an old story (and a movie) called "Flowers for Algernon" about a simple minded man who is given a drug which gives him great intelligence then takes it away again.
I have often thought when working with dementia patients that it is the second half- knowing you're failing, and being unable to stop it, that is the worst. I think it is something like athletes face before they retire. The same old tricks don't work any longer. You're losing it, and you KNOW you're losing it.
My heart goes out to you.
Your action of taking your grandfather's hand and telling him that the scene was overwhelming to you, too, and that you love him: perfect. How he must have felt so understood, so acknowledged, so not alone! Life is not always easy, but when someone takes our hand as you did your grandfather's -- this is what it's all about, Schmutzie. It's why we're here.
I hope that someday, someone like you takes my hand. I'd be so grateful for it. xo
I work in health care. I have an aging parent.
This will help me so, so much today and every day. I'm printing this, bookmarking this, and burning these beautiful, moving words, feelings and photo into my heart.
Thank you.
I understand. The pain of living breaks my heart and yet I want to accept it and embrace it.
I saw my beloved grandfather get old and falter and it wasn't his failing that was terrible. It was that there was no help and there were selfish confused people near him. What happened to him is yes, the heartbreaking part of life but if there had been enough love and care, it would have been bearable. And I've seen that also and it is bearable.
That moment that I acknowledged him and who he was meant so much to me. Just the stillness we had.
I don't want to think that dementia destroys all meaning. The person can feel that they are loved, that is meaningful. It is terrifying because we think that it erases the person. But maybe there are just stages of life--when you are a baby, you don't have your full cognitive powers and we can love and care for you. So when you are very old, perhaps you falter and become weak, vulnerable, lose your faculties but it isn't an obliteration of what came before.
That's what I'm hoping anyway.
Your words are beautiful, as always. I'm glad that you reached out to your Grandfather and that the two of you had that moment. Wishing peace for you all.
My grandparents are only just hitting their 80's (one is 83, one will be 80 in May), and I'm so scared of what will happen to their minds. They're both so independent and completely take care of themselves right now.
Thank you for writing this. Your grandfather is so fortunate to have you as a granddaughter.
My grandparents are long gone, but our neighbour John is going through the same thing.
Hugs, lady.
"We won't remember. I want to think that memory is important, but I increasingly doubt its worth. "
So terrifying to let go of the certainty that we can build our lives, write them and store them up.
Achingly and beautifully put.
This is unbearably sad.
Beautifully written. Incredibly touching.
The last two nights, trying to sleep in bed, I've thought about this post, the images you created and the thoughts it inspired. I especially return to your idea that memories may not matter. I can't decide what I think about that but I keep returning to the fact that moments do. Your grandfather's memories may be muddled - or lost - but you shared a moment with him. A simple but beautiful moment. I don't know. I guess this just reminds me to continue to be mindful of moments, present in the minutes that we experience - and lose - every day.
You know, I read everything you post, even if I seldom comment - not because I have nothing to say, or because you've evoked no reaction in me - more because it's your writing, not my comment on it, that matters.
You've made me think, laugh, cry, and gasp in astonishment, over the years. Thinking about this post, and the grandparents I lost, too many years ago... there is magic, here. Harrowing, maybe - brutal, perhaps - but pure magic.
I'm sorry to read (later on Twitter) that he is in the hospital.
This made me weep. Hold his hand while you can.
I know it's been said many times before me, but my heart broke as I read that.
It was sad, yes, but also beautiful. It's the little, stolen moments that are to be cherished.
Blessings...
I took a deep breath in and sighed with sadness after I read this. I loved my grandparents so much and now they're gone.
It was brave of you to take his hand like that when there was no history of that before.
I wish you all peace.