Dear Grandma,

I love you, but then you know that. I still think you know it, even though you don’t seem to totally know who I am. You still light up, even if for a brief moment, when I walk in and greet you. Your face still smiles when I give you a hug. The tears still well up when we have to say goodbye. There is something in you that realizes I am someone who loves you and whom you love back.

When you walk me to the door and watch me leave, with my three little boys, I get that choked up feeling, that tightening in the back of my throat.

Still, if you could have just one day of pure clarity, there is so much I would tell you.

I would tell you that I am good, that life is good, that God is good. I would tell you about how blessed I feel, to have a good husband and three beautiful boys. I would tell you all about our recent move, from city life to country home. I would explain the whole process, and how you were part of that process even though you didn’t know.

I would tell you all about my children, their personalities, how they are like me and like their dad. I would tell you how I am living in pure contentment and resting with the life I have been given. I would tell you that you passed on a heritage that modeled this to me. I would tell you that you’ve been one of the most instrumental people in my life. We do share a bond. I was your youngest grandchild. I came much later. I came after your son died. I didn’t know or see how you changed. I just loved you and thought you were complete in who you were after his passing.

I am so glad I lived close to you for ten plus years. I loved our days together. Remember when I used to take you shopping and out to lunch? You always wanted to buy me something to wear. You loved that I became a school teacher like you. You loved that I too enjoyed writing and reading, putting thought to paper.

Sometimes the shell of who you are now makes these good memories hard to remember. I hate that. I hate that part of dementia, that it has robbed you and me or our relationship together. I think you hated it. I know you did. That is why you were angry, before it completely took over your mind. I hate that you can’t care anymore about how you look or smell because you were a classy lady. You were beautiful in your wedding picture with Grandpa. You loved the color rose. I shopped with you for your rose dress when you celebrated your 50th wedding anniversary.

I still see glimpses, and those glimpses are good. You still can play the piano. You still tear up when you hear an old hymn. The words feed your soul. You still want to be with children and think they are cute and good. You even can be witty. Your spirit is still tender to the spirit of God. You still want to pray and touch. God is still with you. He has never left you, never will he forsake you.

When you are no longer beautiful, no longer lovely, no longer able to relate, he is still holding and loving you.

We never told you what was happening. You were so frustrated, so angry. You hated that your mind was not holding on and keeping track. You’d make lists of what you wanted to ask me, but then you started losing your lists. You’d ask me to write down all the names of your children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. It soon made no sense. We were just people you loved. You didn’t really know why, but you knew we were significant.

The hardest part was when you realized you had no memories, that there were huge gaps in your life that you didn’t have stored in your mind anymore. You felt hurt. Why had we kept your family from you? Why were your children and grandchildren just now coming to visit and be in relationship with you? You cried. The emotions were so real even if the thinking was false. I cried too because if this were true, how terrible it would be.

I’m sorry Grandma. You would never have liked to be this way. You would have hated it. You were always so interested in people and things, happenings. You would have loved hearing all about our lives even if you were near the end of yours.

The one question I never had the guts to ask you was if heaven seemed more real the closer you got to it. That is really my one regret. I want to know because I look forward to the day when we are there together. I know it is real even though I can’t wrap my earthly brain around it.

I’m sorry Grandma that this is how the end of your life is. I really wish it could end for you, so you could be made perfect again. I love you, and I wish this wasn’t your foggy reality.

Your Youngest Granddaughter,

Rebekah, age 31