Ali Jackson | Remembering her as she was, not as she is

It's raining. A little girl and her grandmother stand at a window, staring out at the droplets. A picnic basket sits on the ground as the little girl bursts into tears.

Not to be defeated, her grandmother recovers quickly. She lays out the blanket on the kitchen floor and the two sit down to share a meal, their feast saved.

Fifteen years later, another feast is about to begin. A young woman wheels her grandmother into a restaurant. The waitress approaches, and the old woman looks confused.

"You like the Francisco burger, Grandma. No onions, remember?"

The rest of the meal is filled with repeated questions, disjointed stories, and the constant puffs of an oxygen tank.

My grandmother was an amazing woman. A nurse who resisted the Nazis in occupied Norway, she brought my mom and her siblings to the United States with $500 and a little bit of hope. Throughout her life, she worked hard to make sure her kids never wanted for anything. It was practically unheard of - reaching upper-middle-class within one generation of immigration. She was unbelievable.

I say "was" - past tense - because although she's still alive, the woman I loved and admired is long gone. In her place is a bitter, hostile skeleton of the independent woman who supported her family with gumption.

For those of you who have a relative with dementia, you know what I'm talking about. I call her weekly, never knowing which woman I'll get. Sometimes she's fine; other times, she yells so viciously I hang up crying. The worst part is she doesn't even remember my calls.

I tell you this not to complain, or garner pity, but because something occurred to me recently: I wonder whom her illness is hardest on - her or us?

For us, being around her is like playing Russian roulette - some days she can't function at all and some days she is completely lucid. Over winter break, my extended family went over to her house for Christmas Eve and she had no idea why we were there.

Our presents confused her, and when it came time to hand everyone their Christmas checks, she read the names off of the envelopes like she had never seen them before.

But I think that it's the times when she's normal that really get to her. I can only imagine what it must be like to know that your mind is gone and to live trapped in a failing body, never knowing how long you have until you don't remember anymore. I always know when I've caught her on one of these days - her voice is a little quieter, her laugh a little softer. It's as if she wishes she could just forget forever.

Growing up, it never occurred to me that the vibrant, robust woman I called Grandma would ever be gone. Her support was so unyielding and constant I guess I assumed it would always be there. I certainly never imagined my grandmother would ever spend her days sitting in an armchair, drinking scotch and alternating puffs of oxygen with puffs on a cigarette.

We joke that one of these days she's going to blow herself up. It's not funny. But it has to be.

It's excruciating to watch my grandmother waste away alone in a smoke-filled house. It's even worse to see my mom stare at her with fear, worrying she's looking into her future's eyes.

My sole way out is to think about her as if she's already gone. This may sound harsh, but it's the only way I can survive. I think about the good times - when she would tickle me until I cried, slip twenties into my pocket when she thought my parents weren't looking or how she called me her "special girl." Out of six grandchildren and two great-grandchildren I am the only girl, her miracle.

I refuse to let the woman in that armchair ruin the memories I have. That woman is not my grandmother.

So I guess my point is to never take anything for granted. And I don't mean to sound preachy. But take it from me - nothing is around forever. I wish I had known that.

Ali Jackson is a Wharton and College sophomore from Cardiff, Calif. Her e-mail address is jackson@dailypennsylvanian.com. A Little Person-Ali-ty appears on Mondays.

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