The memory care unit was a stark contrast from the setting where I usually saw Grandma. Dull, colorless, it didn’t reflect the Grandma I once knew at all. Grandma’s house used to be a carnival of colors, from her lively-colored depression glass to grand Christmases of old. Yet, life is never static. We saw Grandma sitting in the hallway.
“Hi, Mom, look who’s here!” My mother said cheerfully. Since we traveled many hours, I was quite happy to see Grandma.
“Hi, Grandma!” I say, but am met with a blank stare.

“Who are you?” She responds, and I can tell she is searching her memory to no avail. It felt like I had just tumbled into a movie scene, a cliché, generalized portrayal of dementia. It didn’t feel real. However, it was real, and one truth became even more certain – I would never know the Grandma I once knew.

On my dining room table lies a candy dish of my grandmother’s. It has an inviting, rich blue color, like the crashing waves on an island in the Pacific. Looking into the dish transports me back to memories of my grandmother–to photos of her traveling across pristine seas, trips in her and Grandpa’s 1992 Camaro. The color reminds me of Grandma’s eyes–miniscule oceans of their own, and some of the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. I’m disappointed to find the candy dish empty inside–something that never would have happened at Grandma’s house.

Grandma loved holidays, especially Christmas. She cooked our Christmas dinners, bought presents for all her grandchildren, and even sewed a handmade stocking for every family member in our big celebration. She ensured the candy dish was always stocked, too. The Christmas tree, though, sticks out to me the most. Themarvelous pine, decorated in traditional fifties style, was a partygoer straight out of The Great Gatsby. The ornaments were so shiny and dazzling you could see not only your eyes but also a sparkle of joy reflected within them.

My grandmother was raised very traditionally in rural Illinois. An avid reader, she could always be found with a book in hand. However, her free time had been minimal. Those were traditional times when women were told their place was in the home, subservient to their husbands. Yet, at age forty-two, and with six children, she completed her college education to become an elementary school teacher. She was the cornerstone of the family. She kept learning in her retirement too, as she had a big bookshelf of historical novels that was always growing.

I admire many things about my Grandma, but I admire her passion for learning and independence most. They shaped who I am today. Without Grandma’s musings about books she had just read (her favorite topic being FDR) or support for my school achievements, I never would have realized my own passion for writing. Her fierce independence was evident in the fact that she had traveled the world, the finale being a solo trip to Antarctica! She had an adventurous spark, and was not afraid to explore. I hope to someday channel my own spark, and not listen to people who may discourage me from taking on such things. I know she would be my biggest supporter. Life with my grandparents has certainly changed from the grand memories of my childhood. While still wonderful, Christmases became different year by year. As dementia took more from my Grandma, our roles in my grandparents’ lives grew, until the responsibility was too great. We sold the house and now my grandparents live in an assisted living facility. That is why her prized candy dish lives in our house now.

I can no longer have a conversation with Grandma. She has also long forgotten who I am. Dementia is a cruel disease, slowly robbing people, regardless of their achievements or status, of the special memories they held so dear. However, when we’re lucky, we see glimmers of Grandma, glimmers of the brave, driven woman who inspires me to this day. A CNA told me that when Grandma gets upset, he will give her “papers” to grade to calm her nerves. My grandpa tells me that sometimes she uses her old sayings such as “I’m all set” when they are walking in her unit together.

My grandma is still there. The brave arctic traveler, the stereotype demolisher, the encouraging mentor. Grandma’s memories may have been lost to the high tides of dementia, but her eyes, those azure oceans, are still bright.