She Can't Remember

I was born on June 14, 1995. The first two people that I met (naturally) were my mother and father. However, on the day of my birth, I met my grandmother, my Nonna.

From that day onward, my Nonna became an integral part of my life. Nights at her house were always special, even if we didn't do anything one might call extraordinary. She always kept my favorite foods there, sketchbooks, games, coloring books, Matilda (on VHS), and all of our old McDonald's toys. There were toys for bath time, and I had my very own tooth brush. At night time, she would lay out a nightgown for me, ensuring that it was appropriate for the season. The cotton ones without sleeves were for summer, and the thick, fleece nightgowns were always saved for winter. We'd spend time listening to her record player, going for walks, and watering her flowers. She kept an herb garden in the back yard and taught me the names of each herb, letting me smell them and rub the leaves between my chubby fingers. For hours, I would sit in her chair and sift through all of her photo albums, desperately wishing to know the people in the photographs at the age they were when the pictures were taken.

I could go on and on, prattling forever about the awesomeness of my Nonna. She genuinely cared and paid attention to all the things that interested me; as life grew more difficult, she never failed to lend advice and listen to my troubles. Nonna was the most understanding woman in the entire world, so wise and capable.

Loving. Adventurous. Happy. Smiling. Active. Intelligent. Faithful.

But then the forgetting started.

It was slow, not obvious at first, starting about ten years ago. But now, she barely remembers me sometimes. And it makes me sad to see how much of herself she has lost. Her eyes are troubled as she sifts through her jumbled thoughts; I can see it when she tries to answer a question.

Just before she started to forget, she began to give me things. She gave me my sketchbooks. She gave me pictures I painted her. She gave me the photo album I made her. She gave me the illustrated Anne of Green Gables picture book I purchased for her. She knew the forgetting was getting worse.

I swear, all I did was blink, and then there were no more days where we played cards after church and ate pizza in the garage. There were no more trips to the local video store to rent movies. There were no more family dinners at Christmas. There were no more adventures.

And now I am typing all of this, procrastinating.

In two weeks' time, my husband, son, and I will move in to my Nonna's house to care for her, as she cared for me. And truthfully, I am terrified. At first, I thought it was because of the anxiety and work that the act of moving takes; that is still something that I am not looking forward to.

However, I am afraid because of the intimacy. I will be living in a space that was once so incredibly full of life, a place where my own father was raised. I will be living with my Nonna, caring for her, and there will be no escape from the reality that I face; the Nonna that I knew as a child, as a young adult is buried within her, somewhere.

But I don't know if I'll be able to find her or bring her out.

And that terrifies me, because I want to give her one more day. One more day of adventure, of the things she loved. One more day where she doesn't look lost, one more day where she smiles a real smile.

I will love her and care for her and be there for her until her body lets go and her soul departs from her, but I pray that I can give her one more special day.