Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
For the past five years, my grandma has been lost, and she will remain that way for the rest of her life. She has Alzheimer's. It must be so frightening to not know where you are, what you're doing or who all the people surrounding you are – for everything familiar to be gone – all the time. The clearest glimpse I get of her pain is when she is reminded that her husband is dead – and has been for 10 years. It's watching her learn that the love of her life has died all over again. And again. And again. Witnessing my Gram go through that amount of pain breaks my heart.
Maybe that's why it's been far too long since I last visited. Now that she has no idea who I am, I hate it. But I try to visit anyway because at this point, it's not about me. When I see her, it's for her benefit – so she has some company, so the days are a bit less monotonous and clinical in the nursing home. Not too long ago, though, I was reminded of the Gram I remember fondly. I was going through boxes of my old things at my parents' house – the stuff I'd packed up at the end of high school and hadn't looked at since. After several hours, I reached the last box.
At the bottom was a notebook that Gram had given me. It was old and stained and had a crumbly, no-longer-stretchy elastic band holding it shut. I remembered Gram giving me the notebook when I was in high school and saying I might like to read it when I was older. But seven years later, I still hadn't opened it.
I sat down to read it now. Gram had written about me – it was my life from her perspective. She addressed me directly, writing letters and notes from the time I was born right up until 2004, when I was 15. She'd also tucked in letters I'd sent her, art I'd made, plus some photos and newspaper clippings. I broke off the elastic, set the loose contents aside and started reading. My birth announcement from the local newspaper was taped to the inside cover and the first page was dedicated to a quick family tree. Then came the good stuff.
"It was a lovely, sunny day when you were born, Julia, clear blue sky and a few puffy, white clouds."
My heart almost stopped. Gram hadn't talked to me like that in ages – knowing my name, remembering my past. I felt like she was right there, sitting on my bed with me. Talking to me.
I read through the whole book without moving. For the first few years of my life, the entries were frequent. Having been a nurse, Gram wrote down all of my health details and developmental milestones, but it was so personal – she wrote not only about my first words, but also my first imitation car noises.
She wrote about my habits and routines. Interestingly, she saw things in me when I was only a few months old that I see in myself now: quietness, quickness to smile, a love of books and the outdoors and an odd but distinct comfort around my cousin, David.
I got a few good laughs out of the child version of myself and out of Gram's commentary. She may have been writing to an infant, but she supplied some inadvertent words of wisdom. When I was young, I was very shy and clung to my mom a lot, something I can see remnants of in myself today.
Gram wrote, "I hope you become independent later – you have to be in this world today. It is also painful if you don't. You have the potential to do all kinds of things as long as you are allowed and encouraged." She was right, on all counts, as I've learned the hard way.
The entries became a little less frequent as I got older, this may have been because we lived about 10 hours apart. But she still made sure to visit at least every three months and she always wrote about the details of these visits – the fun my brother and I had with our cousins, visits to our favourite haunts and the crafts we did together.
As I read, I almost felt as if we were having a conversation. I have my own memories of these events and now I could read about them from her perspective; it was as if we were reminiscing together.
Around the time I was 10, there's a gap of a few years. She explains it with a quick sentence: "due to Gramp's stroke and my fatigue. " In those words, I feel the depth of her pain, which I was oblivious to at the time. When the entries become more frequent again – after he died – I perceive her sadness at not being more involved with my brother and me while Gramps was sick. I wish I could tell her that she did the best she could and I wish I had been older so I could have done more than send homemade get-well-soon cards.
Once I started high school, the entries are brief, but I suppose there wasn't as much to say. Now, as I read, it transitions from her recording most of the details to me remembering most of the details. The last entry is about a summer visit (which I remember quite clearly) and ends beautifully with, "Love (of course!), Gram."
It is so kind of her to have considered that I might want a record of our relationship, a way to interact with her when she is gone. For she is gone now, in a way.
Gram is alive, but the relationship between us is … gone? Changed for sure. Gram's notebook lets me hear her voice again – like one last conversation that will never fade. I am so touched that she created it for me and thankful that it fell into my hands. And in your own words, Gram, "I shall never stop wanting you to stay longer."
Julia Reddick lives in South Porcupine, Ont.