photos by Lara Herscovitch / contributed
“I can’t talk to anybody. It just seems like all I want to do is just keep crying, crying, and I don’t know why I want to cry…and I’ve been going through this for a week and it bothers me. I don’t know what to do. You see me sitting here? I put my shoes on and I was going to come in there to talk to you but I couldn’t get up. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know why it’s like this. Why? It’s not me.” -Nana, May 28th, 2024
Your first of three falls happened on a Tuesday, two months ago. I remember because ma called me and said that she had not been able to reach you by phone. I told her that it was still early — 8:30 am to be exact — but also that I would check on you earlier than usual, just to allay the fear that was clearly filling her throat as she spoke.
Throughout the car ride over to your apartment complex, I kept telling myself that you were fine.
Perhaps you didn’t pick up the phone because you were in the bathroom, trying to take the cap off of one of your medicine bottles. I had watched you do that a couple times on other mornings, without you knowing I was there. I felt like a parent peering through a daycare window after dropping off their child for the first time. I was so curious, and wanted to verify what you had been telling me about your morning routine: “I get up every morning, shower, fix myself breakfast, take my meds, and get back in bed.”
You did in fact rise early those other mornings, but you didn’t shower, eat breakfast, or take your meds. I saw the way the loss of dexterity in your hands made it nearly impossible for you to grip those tiny pills; more often than not, many of them landed on the bathroom floor. Your version of a shower was washing your face with soapy water, followed by a gentle rinse.
Each time you turned to face the open bathroom door, I stepped back into your living room to remain undetected. Such a flood of compassion mixed with sadness overwhelmed me.
With each step leading to your apartment that Tuesday morning, my forward movements grew harder, heavier. Even while I attempted to convince myself that you were fine, my doubt loomed larger.
Fear grew when I saw that you were not in the bathroom or in your bed, which I know is your preferred and favorite place to be.
I found you sitting upright on the floor, with your legs beneath the box spring of the bed and a wild look in your eyes. You told me that you fell — over by the window — and had scooted yourself to the place where I found you.
In the following moments, a mystical role reversal took place. “C’mon beautiful, let’s get you up,” I said. Despite your objections and adamant declaration that I could not lift you, we worked together to get you up and back in your favorite place. Nestling your tiny head in the crook of my sternum you whispered, “how did you know to come? Thank you, thank you.”
I found you on the floor again the following day. Masking my feeling of anger with cheer and affirmations, I managed to get you up and back in bed. Your body felt heavier this time, as if there was no strength left in your bones to draw from. A feeling of duty quickened within me, to pick you up and do all I could to prevent you from falling again.
Much has changed since then, and even more has changed since your first fall that Tuesday two months ago. You, my favorite woman on earth, have changed so much since that Tuesday. So many changes in such a short time.
As a spiritual care practitioner working in a hospital setting, I knew that these changes would come. Typically, elderly patients who experience frequent falls begin to decline quickly. There is something unforgiving about that first fall. It initiates a cascade of other issues that makes recovery harder, and less likely.
In my work, I have offered care to hundreds of families who have had to make emotionally painful decisions for loved ones whose bodies and minds could not recover.
I have created spaces of psychological safety for them to process. Engaged them in meaning-making. Facilitated conversations between a room full of family members who each had a difference of opinion on what was best for their loved one. Helped them to hear one another through reflexive listening. Affirmed their courage to make these hard decisions. Validated how one can never know if they are making the “right” choice. Held their hands. Dabbed at their eyes as they shed tears. Rested in the uncertainty with them.
But now that it’s us on the opposite side of it all, it’s indescribable, even as I write this to you, trying to describe it.
All of my degrees and specialized training are inadequate. Your decline is uncontrollable. Bearing witness to your cognitive unraveling — someone I love so dearly — feels like a personal attack. Dementia is such a cruel thief. What hurts the most is that it did not give us the chance to say goodbye to one another.
I miss our talks. As much as your probing into my romantic life used to annoy me, I also miss it so much. I miss you telling me how beautiful my skin looked, asking me how I got to be so pretty, and us laughing together when I would respond that I took after you. I miss your stories of migrating from South Carolina to D.C. and settling in Connecticut. I miss my soaking in your tenacity while listening to you recount having to raise seven children on your own after grand-daddy left. I miss hearing the blaring of your television before entering your apartment door.
I miss your fire.
On the days your dementia forces you to leave your own mind, I sit there helpless and sorrowful. Sometimes, acceptance breaks through my grief and I experience a tinge of comfort. I listen to you seek out requests from our ancestors about their favorite food dishes for a dinner party you are planning, and it brings me peace.
Somewhere in the far corners of your mind they have appeared, though I cannot see them. Each of the seven sisters, including your mother: Omena, Lily Kate, Georgia, Ruby, Minnie Jane, Gladys, and Mamie have all gathered at your bedside. Other guests I hear you describe include little girls in green dresses, little boys too shy to come close to you, a group of finely dressed men, and beloved church members who passed on long ago.
As you sing your favorite song, “I Trust in You Lord,” I know that God is there too.
I feel a bit envious of those that have made it onto the guest list, for there is to be a grand feast where I am not invited. In my imagination I see two dinner tables, one for the adults and one for the children, with a spread of all the things you cooked so splendidly laying before them: cornbread dressing, homemade rolls, pot roast, chopped barbeque, and sweet potato pies.
Amidst swallows of satisfaction, recipe requests, and praises for you, the lovely host, someone mentions those of us who miss you dearly.
Watching the decline of your strength hurts. It was — and still is — your most admirable quality. Watching dementia take its toll on you grieves me. You have forgotten my name; the one you passed on to me when you found out ma was having another girl. It is also your mother’s name, a woman you loved and lost at a young age.
I am grateful when fragments of you return. For every spiritual and hymn you sing, I am reminded that the Spirit of God is ever present.
There is so much I want to tell you even now; so many questions I want to ask. Tell me more about my namesake. Tell me about her personality. Where does our name come from? Are we similar in any way? What did you admire about her the most? What are some of the things you never got to do in life? What were some of the hardest lessons you had to learn?
Accepting, and somewhat regretting, that I never took the opportunity to ask these and other questions, and knowing that they will go unanswered, compounds my grief.
When you sleep, I stretch out my hands and cover you in prayer, asking God to meet you in those coveted places of your mind and commune with you there. While oiling your scalp and brushing your hair, I feel closer to you. You are cloaked in Psalms 28:7, dripping with Exodus 15:2, and rooted in Ecclesiastes 9:1.
For everything you have imparted in, and passed along to me, I am and will remain grateful. It is because of your faith that I now know the Lord for myself.
I am trying not to grieve, because you are still here. And I am grieving, because a big part of you is gone. How can I miss someone who is still here? How is it possible to mourn the living?
All of this seems to have happened suddenly; I do not know why this disease has attached itself to you. While it all feels so hard — so hard — there are also the moments when gratitude breaks through my grief, helping me to remember that you have had a good life. And a good life is also what you’ve always desired for me.
Today you are still here. And in many ways, always will be.
To reach Omena directly: mccoy.omena@gmail.com
Omena first I want to thank you for sharing this beautiful touching experience with your grandmother. It was written so well that as I was reading it… it pulled back into the place that I also experienced with my grandmother with this disease. You are so blessed to have all these great memories, but most of to know that you are a precious gem. A beautiful child of God that will continue to be your armor. I am praying ???????? for you and your family. ❤️❤️❤️❤️