My grandfather loved to cook.
Every time my family visited his house, the routine was the same. My grandparents, my Teta and Jido, would beam with joy. It made me feel so special, that I could make them that happy just by being there. They would marvel at how much me and siblings grew, tell us how happy they were to see us, and then offer us food.

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“Are you hungry?”
“Come to the kitchen habibti, I made kibbeh, come eat some.” “I’ll make you man'oushe for breakfast, would you like that?”

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My grandfather wasn’t the most talkative person, unlike my grandmother, who wanted to know everything about school and sports and who my friends were. It didn’t really matter though; I still felt loved every time he placed a plate of food in front of me. I preferred his peaceful silence to the loud, endless chatter of most of my family members anyway, and because of this we got along well.

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We’d eat breakfast together in the mornings, him listening and smiling as I chattered endlessly about what I was going to do that day. He had a talent for making me feel like whatever I had to say was interesting, like I couldn’t annoy him with my constant talking.

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He didn’t talk about his life before he came to the US. I didn’t know that he had 7 siblings, 6 of whom still lived in Lebanon. I didn’t know that his mother couldn’t read or write, or that he lived in Lebanon by himself, working as an accountant, while his wife and children lived in a one-room apartment in Syria. All of these things I learned later, from my father, after the Alzheimer’s had taken hold. Things are different now. He’ll start talking, telling me about his
beloved peach trees that are blossoming in his garden. He complains about the deer that feast on the peaches until there’s nothing left for him to harvest. He wants to build a fence around the garden, one that is high enough to keep the wretched creatures out and protect his fruits. He’s planning on planting more tomatoes, enough tomatoes so that he won’t have to buy any from the store anymore.

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Sometimes, when there’s a pause in the conversation, he looks at me kindly, but without recognition.
“What’s your name?” He asks.
“Marie”, I say. I always answer casually, like it's no big deal that he forgot. I don’t want him to feel bad.
“Ah, such a beautiful name! I have a sister named Marie.”
I smile at this. I was named after Jido’s sister Marie - she was my dad’s favorite aunt.
“I know Jido. Are you hungry? Let’s make some food.”

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Mealtimes are a little different too. Instead of sitting at the table, waiting for a steaming plate of food to be placed in front of me, I help my dad cook in the kitchen while my grandfather sits patiently at the table. We work clumsily, and the results of our culinary efforts are never quite as good as the food Jido used to make. It’s worth it though, because once the food is ready, we all sit together and eat, just like we used to when I was little.
Sometimes, during the conversations we have during these meals, Jido shocks me by recounting some past memory in such vivid detail it's almost like it happened yesterday.

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“Remember when you were little, Issa?” He addresses my father. “You and your cousin would jump on my bed, even after I told you not to. When the bed broke, you hid it from me by using bricks to hold the bed up!” He chuckles. “Even then, you were clever enough to keep yourself out of trouble.”

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Whenever he tells stories like these, little fragments of memories that give a glimpse of the life he lived, I feel like I’m sitting with the grandfather I grew up with, the one that carried me on his shoulders when we went apple picking and made my favorite foods every time I came to visit.

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Something has been lost. Or rather, it's been taken, snatched away by Alzheimer’s. Jido doesn’t remember a lot of things. He’s not the independent, strong-willed person he used to be. That doesn’t matter though. He’s still my grandfather. He still loves cooking and eating good food, wandering in his garden examining his peach trees, and spending time with his grandkids.
Nothing, even Alzheimer's, can take these things away.

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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.

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“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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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His gait was shuffled. His eyes were vacant. He was wearing three mismatched shirts on a hot summer day in Houston. He is my grandfather who suffered from Lewy Body Dementia. This man was layered, like the shirts that he wore. Each layer represented the experiences, relationships, and emotions that culminated into a man that has left an indelible mark on my heart.

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Born to first-generation parents, my grandpa was surrounded by a close, tight-knit New York Italian family. His mother worked in a curtain factory and his father was a construction worker. One of his favorite tales to tell was how his father had to resort to making coffins during the depression, as the housing market was in shambles. He knew where he was rooted and he bloomed as a result. Named “Class Clown” in his high school yearbook, my grandfather kept the same best friend for the remainder of his life. He made the bold move to attend college at the University of Notre Dame in Indiana on an ROTC scholarship. It would be his only trip outside the New York area and his first plane ride! The war in Vietnam was no match for him either, as he faced it with bravery, although admittedly he was frightened. Several years after his return from war, he would share the emotional details of having to tell a mother that her son had died in combat. My grandfather carried that memory in his heart and it never left him despite the dreaded Lewy Body cells invading his pristine mind.

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He married the love of his life. He would often say that she was the best thing that ever happened to him. After thirty years of marriage, he suffered perhaps the most tragic time in his life. He lost his wife after a brief illness. He was devastated. Another man would have crumbled at facing the future alone. Not him. He fought through grief and continued to make himself a vibrant part of our family. That dedication to his family never waned, even when dementia was trying to take hold.

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His Sunday mornings began with attending church and watching his grandchildren sing “Glory to God'' in the choir. After church, he treated us to breakfast at Denny’s - ordering the All-American Slam. Although he enjoyed the food at Sunday morning breakfasts, he mainly cherished the time he spent with his family around the table. He was proud of his family, showing up to elementary school shows, little league games, and all high school graduations. He joyfully made his highly-requested chicken cutlets recipe for our family dinners. It was a bonus if a grandchild or two helped. It involved a lot of sticky breadcrumbs and egg yolk stuck on our fingers, but we didn’t care because it was a memory that we were so lucky to be making. As his motor planning skills deteriorated, we would gently redirect him and he was proud that we had observed him so carefully. He always made sure to have Chips Ahoy and Sunny D stored in his pantry, because he knew that my sisters and I would come over to get his wise advice and special treats.

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The man with the layered shirts was complex, yet simple. He loved big and feared little. He battled Lewy Body Dementia with the same grit and grace that guided him through life. At the end of his life, his words might have been absent and his outfits disorganized, but he was still so genuine about his love for life. He taught me by example, that through difficult times when it seems as if the sun will never shine, you will always have your family to take care of you, pray with you, cook with you, laugh with you, cry with you, grieve with you, and most importantly, love you.

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Trusting in God
We have one month left until my cousin’s wedding. He’s the second oldest of the three of us. He is eight years older than me, which means he was gifted a few more wonderful years with our grandmother than I was. We would spend day after day feeding the birds, eating home cooked meals, and watching our grandmother be one of the sweetest ladies in our town. Levi’s wedding is one month away, and part of his childhood won’t be there because of her life-changing dementia. In my head, I know that “Momma Jo” should be running around town finding her perfect wedding dress and bragging about how grown her only grandson is. She should be offering her input on the flowers that will be placed on the tables. Nevertheless, as Levi watches his bride walk down the aisle, our grandmother will be sitting in her chair not knowing her grandbaby is starting a new life.

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I was three years old, walking down the hallways of my mother’s clinic. I would travel from door to door trying to find the perfect place to color. As I made my way down the hallway to the final door, I knew that the kindest, most gentle face would be waiting for me on the other side, my grandmother. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the clinic would almost fall to pieces without her being manager. Luckily for me, she made time between her busy schedule to lay blankets and pillows down next to her. She would laugh and play games. I remember her smile, her warming smile that reminded me of the cups of coffee she would fill with sugar for me. I miss her smile.

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Now instead of being greeted at the door with a smell of cornbread and coffee brewing, I’m greeted with an empty kitchen. As I walk through the house I find the caretaker in the rocking chair. When I see my grandmother it’s not the same woman that was running a business a couple of years ago. She walks past me as if we didn’t spend every weekend together. I’m selfish, catching myself thinking, “I just want my grandmother back.” Who am I to say that this new woman in front of me isn’t the same person? It’s the same body, but the eyes are different. I can no longer see the emotions she used to display. The powerful woman that controlled the town for years with her gorgeous looks and charming personality, disappeared in front of our eyes. Why was our loved one taken away from us without actually leaving? Why haven’t I thought about how she feels?

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Laying in her bed, wide awake wondering why she’s not moving. Staring at her chirping alarm clock, having to endure it until someone comes to help. The most powerful woman we know, changing almost overnight. Every day is something new that she has to persevere to try and perform her daily routine. Then she smiles and I’m reminded that she didn’t change almost at all. She’s the same grandmother that loves us. Instead now she watches us live from a distance and tries her best to understand our conversations. She’s powerful in the sense that she continues her days trying to be as independent as possible. Her spirit never changed.

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I write these small parts of our lives mostly for myself. My grandmother was diagnosed officially in February 2019 and I have still yet to come to terms with the changes. We lost both her husband and her mother in late 2020. While we were all mourning, Momma Jo experienced a rapid decline in her mental health. We discovered very quickly that we couldn’t let her out of our sight for very long. I was worried for my mom and uncle the most, witnessing them watch their own mother change. When asking my family members how they feel about our situation most responded with the words depressing, stressful and unfair. Every day she awakens to read her Bible and complete her devotion. Through her hard times she has never lost her faith or her happiness and that reminded me of God’s plan. It almost makes me wonder if He had this happen so she could easily undergo the future losses. I know that if she trusts God as much as she does, that we should too. Then one day we will be together again, catching her up on some of the memories she missed.

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