Alzheimer's Disease: A Granddaughter's Perspective

When I was in the fourth grade, my grandfather died of complications from Alzheimer's Disease. It was a slow, painful death. In fact, he starved to death. His body deteriorated so much that he could not even swallow water. He had a medical directive stating that he did not wish to have a feeding tube, therefore, all the doctors and nurses could do was give him an IV. He was 67 years old.

That summer while my grandfather was starving to death, I can vividly remember going out to eat with my family. I remember a sick feeling in my stomach as we prayed before eating our food. Here I was about to dig into a delicious meal, and Grandpa was starving to death.

My father bore a heavy burden. He had to place my grandfather in an assisted living facility. At some point while he was in assisted living, my grandfather became violent, throwing a TV out the window.

Consequently, I have no tolerance for people who do not visit their elderly relatives. While my grandfather was hospitalized, my parents drove my brothers and I an hour each way every Saturday to visit my grandfather. I wasn't allowed to see him. He didn't recognize my grandmother or my father, but they went any way.

At my grandfather's funeral, I saw my grandfather's body for the first time in months. He was emaciated. Unrecognizable. My mother didn't want me to even look at him, but I told her I wanted to. Thankfully, although I can still recall what he looked like in the casket, that is not how I remember him. I remember him as strong and alive. I remember him coming to my school for Grandparents' Day and having lunch with me. I thought that was the coolest thing ever.

The first day I went back to school after my grandfather's funeral was, ironically, Grandparents' Day. When my class walked into the cafeteria and saw all the grandparents, several of my friends were quite sympathetic for such young people. "Oh, no! Ashley! Are you okay?" "I'm sorry, Ashley! How sad!"

My grandfather was a tough guy. He didn't need doctors. So by the time his Alzheimer's symptoms became obvious to friends and family, he was in a fairly advanced stage of the disease, and there was little the doctors could do. Based on this experience as a child, and my current experience as a caregiver for my husband who suffers from Psoriatic Arthritis, I beg you: if you are sick, please go to the doctor. You can actually hurt your family by being strong and long suffering.