My grandmother has dementia. I love her, and I know she loves me too. Read on..
It starts again. The cycle. The never ending punch in the gut, jolt to the heart, baffling cycle.
The first stage:
“Have you talked to mom?” The question I hate to hear when one of my four brothers calls.
“Yes.” I close my eyes before I ask, “Why?”
“She just seems,” Sigh, “Out of it.”
“No. I haven’t noticed.” I lie.
Then I end the call and pretend it never happened. I go about my day. I play with my children. We do homework. I cook dinner for my family, a mediocre, limp mess that we call a meal. I sit in my chair at the kitchen table, fork some food into my mouth, chew, and swallow, all the while trying to push her illness away from my reality. I smile at my son as he tells me something really important about one of his Lego Star Wars characters…
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