It’s December 23rd, in the year 2000. My mom and I are staying in her childhood home located in an old suburb just outside of Detroit. The tiny, snow-covered brick house, which hasn’t been updated since sometime in the late 60’s, smells of perfume and wood, comparable to what an old book shop with multiple wooden shelves smells like. Paintings and sculptures created by my nonna are proudly displayed in various nooks around the home. A Rubik’s Cube sits in it’s permanent seat on the side table by the couch along with stacks of newspapers.
An exhilarating combination of sweet singing, laughter, and joy of the holiday season reminds us to savor the moment. Most of this singing, laughter and joy, brought on by my grandmother. The following day, Christmas Eve, my family and I head around the corner to St. Hilary’s, the church my mother and her sister were raised in. The drive there took less than five minutes, but I will never forget how magical it was. Sitting in the back seat, it seemed as though time was still while we listened to the classical music station and watched the snow flakes drift by as if they were dancing to every note hummed throughout the car.
Of all these wonderful memories, I will also remember the sudden appearance of notes taped on various doors and walls throughout their house. Notes, written by my papa, like, “Close door behind you.”, “Put keys here.”, and “Do not go upstairs.”. These dreaded notes were due to the recent discovery that my grandmother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
But we were not yet ready to lose her to such a slow, destructive disease. My papa, was not prepared to lose his wife. My mom and aunt were not ready to become a mother to their mother. So many stories of her courageous past were yet to be told. So much was yet to be lived, but rather than move forward in time, my nonna slowly regressed.
By the time I was eleven, speaking on the phone to her was essentially a repetition of the same questions and answers, separated by a few sighs of exhaustion on my end. A few years later, holding any sort of conversation with her was not likely and most of what she expressed came through song, hugs, and unstoppable laughter. Much of what we’ve learned from her since her diagnoses came not from what she has or hasn’t spoken, but in her loving character. Through song, she expressed her love for Jesus in a passionate rendition of Ave Maria, through smiles, she shared her joy with her family, and through laughter, she taught us how to overcome.
Now, about 16 years since her diagnoses, my Nonna is wheelchair-bound and sings no more. She has to be fed by staff in assisted living and spends most of her time sleeping. As truly sad and greedy as Alzheimer’s is, it has not defeated my family or my grandmother. When we play Pavarotti for her, tears of recognition well up in her eyes. She is still here, just not with the ability to express herself. Alzheimer’s has summoned within us the necessity to respect and learn from the life my nonna has lived and continues to live.
“This is the true wine of astonishment: “We are not over when we think we are.”
― Alice Walker
First photo courtesy of bellaverita.wordpress.com