Sometimes I wonder if maybe, just maybe, the philosophers, authors, poets, politicians, and artists – those who we look to for answers to life’s questions – simply have it all wrong. Well, not that they are wrong as in incorrect, but wrong in the sense that they seem to oversimplify everything by bending the truth and transforming it in order to cast it in a positive light. I have reflected upon their beliefs and principles, but I cannot get myself to embrace their one-dimensional view when it comes to the profound and weighty subject of memory. Friedrich Nietzche, for instance, declared that “the existence of forgetting has never been proved: we only know that some things don’t come to mind when we want them to.” In his 1922 book of speeches entitled Courage, author J.M. Barrie penned the following: “God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.” The acclaimed Italian poet, Cesare Pavese, wrote that “we do not remember days; we remember moments.”
In my opinion, Nietzche, Barrie, and Pavese give a flawed and misleading sense of hope when it comes to the topic of memory. There is so much more to memory than roses and the disparity between days and moments; so much more than the simple inability to remember things at any given time. In fact, it was my grandmother – not the philosophers, poets, authors, politicians, and artists – who taught me how memory is a paradox, one marked by wonder but also by debilitation and devastation.
My grandmother (who I, along with her other eight grandchildren, affectionately called “Bubby” which is Yiddish for grandmother) was without a doubt not only my closest friend and confidante, but my role model as well. My mother (my grandmother’s daughter) would always tell my sisters and me that there is no one on this earth who is 100% well intentioned and good-natured aside from my grandmother. My grandmother had a laugh, smile, and overall aura to her that was all her own. She never commanded attention for there was no need. My grandmother simply drew it in with her warmth, affection, and gentleness and did so without ever losing her subtle, demure nature.
In 2006, my darling Bubby was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, which led her to forget monumental parts of and significant people in her life over the course of a four-year period. Her mind just opened up and began unraveling over time, causing every moment and every memory to slowly but surely slip away. The interior scrapbook of an entire life’s worth of memories – such as names, dates, and places – slowly faded into a fog of non-recognition. There came a point in the progression of her Alzheimer’s when I admitted to myself that there would come a day when I would look up and my grandmother’s memory would no longer exist. I knew that there would be a time when she would not remember my name or who I was, and when that day came, I realized I would come to the conclusion that her once lively and vivacious self was a part of the past. My grandmother’s physical body remained unaltered for the most part, but over time she proceeded to forget the everyday moments she once took for granted. All I wanted was for the doctors, the pills, and the cognitive evaluations to resurrect her to the woman she was prior to this incredible demise, but I knew that this desire would never be fulfilled.
Bubby and I would sit side-by-side on a sofa in her home with her 1952 high school yearbook spread across both of our laps. I would carefully flip through its pages, as she sat stroking and running her fingers through my hair. I would do my best to trigger a memory from high school with a prompting question. Sometimes she would just shake her head as if she were lost and did not know where to go. Often, she would appear frustrated, as her expressive capabilities at that point in her Alzheimer’s disease progression did not allow her to communicate her thoughts easily. I could see that she was racing up and down the corridors of her mind, frantically seeking to make the best of the situation around her. If we were both lucky, she would offer me a twinkle of a smile that suggests a moment of familiarity and comprehension. I would continue to prod with questions. I would read the names from below the photos of each member of her graduating class to see if they sparked a level of cognition on her part, for I constantly felt responsible to be the keeper of her past and the protector of her present.
I would immerse myself in Bubby’s stories, whenever she was able to express one; I would hang on to every word, for fear that particular moment could be the last opportunity to learn these specific details. I was, and continue to be, a willing repository for the plotline of her life. With what my grandmother told me, I was able to fill in certain blanks for her during the time she had Alzheimer’s and store the information given for later. Through what I have learned and continue to learn about my grandmother and the life she led, I am now able to carry her essence forward for the rest of my life. I carry everything she was able to tell me over the eighteen years that I knew and loved my Bubby.
From 2006 to 2010, I witnessed things I thought impossible of a woman in her seventies. To my grandmother, the remote control and the telephone were often interchangeable – she would pick up the phone and attempt to change the channels on the television. Alternatively, she would try to dial a number on the remote control. Towards the end of her battle with Alzheimer’s, she was no longer able to perform some of the most basic tasks, things that any elementary school-aged child is capable of doing: telling time, signing her name, adding and subtracting, putting clothes together to make a complete outfit, or setting the table.
I wish, more than anything, that I could have retaught her those things, had her learn them all over again, than magically, she would have transformed back into that functioning, smiling, independent woman I once knew. I wish it could have been that simple – reminder her and then that’s it – she would remember forever. But the situation was far too grave and confusing to be remedied that simply (or even at all for that matter.)
Leaving my grandmother to come here to Bucknell was one of, if not, the most difficult things I have ever done (or will ever do) in my life. Looking back on it, I sobbed as we embraced for an extremely long time. I know that I would have cried saying goodbye to Bubby as I went off to college had she not had Alzheimer’s, but the possibility that she could forget my name and ostensibly who I was as a person overwhelmed me with unrivaled sadness. Her parting words before I left her house to drive up to Lewisburg were “to me, you are everything,” which is a phrase I replay over and over again in my mind to this very day.
As soon as I got to Bucknell, I made it a point to call my grandmother every day and write a letter to her at least once a week. The last thing I wanted was physical distance and separation to be driving factor that led her to forget me. In the first few months, Bubby recognized that it was me on the other end of the phone whenever I called. From November on, however, I would have to remind her over the phone that I was Hillary, her oldest granddaughter and Susie’s eldest daughter. Sometimes she would be able to connect the dots and realize that it was me with whom she was speaking, but most times she would have absolutely no idea.
My Bubby passed away on March 26, 2010 after a four-year, uphill struggle with Alzheimer’s. The world changed on that windy spring day and my life was forever altered beyond a reasonable doubt as well. It has been over three years since my grandmother’s death, but time is a funny thing – sometimes it feels like it has been ages and other times it feels like just yesterday. I have a photograph of her exquisite smiling self framed on my desk, so her beauty greets me each morning as I wake and comforts me every night as I fall asleep.
Unlike soon after my grandmother’s passing, my current everyday life is not inundated by thoughts of her. I am able to function, attend class, socialize with friends, and devote myself to my academics without bursting into tears or missing her to the point of no return. However, my grandmother’s passion for learning, love for her friends and family, and devotion to improve the community at large are all qualities of hers that drive me to work my hardest to be a better student, friend, sister, daughter, volunteer and, soon, teacher.
Graduation is less than a month away and marks the first major life-changing event of mine for which my grandmother will not be there. Bucknell graduation is a time charged with celebration, friends, family, and reflection on academic achievement; without question, I know that it will be all those things for me as well. However, I have also come to the realization and subsequent acceptance that graduation weekend will also be interspersed with moments of sadness and longing for the woman I admired and loved (and continue to admire and love) so dearly. I know that she will be with me as I walk across the stage and receive my diploma on the Academic Quad on May 19th, but the weekend will not fully be complete knowing that she is not physically there.
Bubby’s Alzheimer’s, however, taught me to be more reflective, live in the moment, and relish in life’s celebrations and good occasions. My cherished relationship with Bubby showed me that life is experienced in the present alongside family and friends (such as those who we have met and grown to love here at Bucknell), but quickly becomes the past. Memories are made in the moment and, if we are all lucky, we carry them forward for many years to come.