Poetry: The Last Time I Saw My Grandfather Alive

© 2011 by Debbie Dunn

Introduction: My maternal grandfather died many years ago of Alzheimer's. My mother has been diagnosed with the early stages of Alzheimer's. Using the medium of free-style free verse will help me and others address this very scary topic.

Composed on March 28, 2011

Many years ago,

I traveled to San Francisco

from the state of Tennessee

to visit a dear friend.

While I was there,

I steeled myself

for my trip to the locked ward

of the nursing facility

where people dealing with Alzheimer's symptoms

live, reside, and eventually die.

The father of my mother

had this dreaded disease.

One day, his only son

came to visit.

My grandfather,

upon being informed this stranger's name was Sam

stated matter-of-factly,

"I have a son whose name is Sam."

He had no memory that his flesh and blood

was standing right in front of him,

wearing his heart upon his sleeve.

I think, had that been me,

I would have had to go out in the hallway

and cry.

I would have longed to say,

"But father, I'm Sam.

I'm your own little boy grown big.

I'm your son.

Don't you remember me?

Please say you remember me."

My uncle bit his tongue

and left those words

or similar words unsaid.

He was so frightened,

as was my mother,

that someday,

they too might suffer

from this same disease.

When a day came

when they could not recall

the name of someone they knew,

feelings of panic set in.

"Oh, no. It's happening already.

I have the beginning stages of

that dreadful disease."

Common sense should have told them

that we all forgot people's names sometimes.

That is normal and natural.

Instead, they saw this example

through a filter of fear

that colored their lives in unfortunate ways.

As for my uncle,

before we would ever know

whether or not he would succumb

to a similar diagnosis,

he died of a blood cancer

called Multiple Myeloma.

As for my mother,

I hoped beyond hope

she would never be diagnosed

with her father's disease.

So travel back in time with me

to that day long gone.

I went to visit that locked ward

in that California nursing home.

They wheeled my grandfather in.

He looked a shell of his former self.

Thin and gaunt

where formerly he was hardy and tall.

I expected him to not know me.

After all, I only had seen him

a double handful of times

my whole life through

since he always lived so far away.

Nevertheless, I introduced myself.

I talked of people he used to know well.

I mentioned my mother's name again and again.

I mentioned my father's name,

his son's name,

the names of his grandchildren

other than me.

At one point,

during that twenty-minute visit,

he gasped.

He sat up.

His eyes cleared and locked upon mine.

He exclaimed with great joy,

"I know who you are."

I was so grateful.

That clarity of mind lasted for but

thirty to forty seconds.

It might have been my mother he recalled

instead of me.

That mattered not.

It was that brief connection that counted.

I was so very grateful

to be given even that much.

Then his eyes clouded over.

He slumped back into his wheel chair.

He glanced over at me and asked,

"Who did you say you were again?"

I only stayed a few minutes longer.

I did not think I would be lucky enough

to have lightning strike twice.

He was tired. I was emotionally torn.

So I gave him a hug,

and said my last "Good-bye"

to the man who was the father

of my beloved mother.

Many years have passed.

My mother is now 83.

For the last three or four years,

my siblings and I have detected signs

that she was in the early stages

of this very same disease.

My father did his best

to play the denial game.

At times, I tried my best

to play that game as well.

Recently, it has been confirmed

that she too has received

that very diagnosis.

So now, my father,

my siblings, and I

play that waiting game.

I would be happy to wait forever

for enough symptoms to appear

that would motivate her

to look at me with a face grown blank

and ask those heart-rending words,

"Who did you say you were?"