Ars Literarium Volume V
Metamorphosis A lone voice rises above the tympanic dripping of an electric coffee pot. I cease the customary flurry of morning movement, the tugging on of shoes and wrapping of scarf, to listen. My grandmother’s voice, thin and defiant, delivers a cheerful melody. I follow the sound and peer into her room. She continues to sing, smiling at me from her cozy cocoon of blankets. She hasn’t always been this way, this frail-framed embodiment of confusion. The transformation began several years ago, when Tuesdays became Thursdays, and Saturdays were Wednesdays. Then she relinquished her baby blue Chevy, the one that transported me to ice skating practice, school, and birthday parties. Bit by bit her stubborn independence subsided, and she agreed to leave her house of six decades and move in with us. She tired more easily, seemed less oriented and we suspected an inevitable hardening of the arteries. Then, during a routine checkup Dr. Ramsaroop diagnosed Alzheimer’s Disease. Alzheimer’s cannot be determined conclusively until after death, but Grandma had all of the typical symptoms. From that point forth we knew: Grandma’s brain was dying. In the years since her diagnosis, Grandma has led me through a tangle of questions. I am frustrated by my inability to empathize with her. I cannot imagine the sensations that she feels, or the thought processes which convince her that her hallucinations are real. She doesn’t recognize me anymore; I am “that woman,” or “the one in the room next to mine.” I miss her. I miss the woman with perennially strawberry blond hair who coached me through the stock market club in seventh grade, and who made a strangely tasty rice and raisin casserole every time I was home sick. I wonder what becomes of a soul obscured by physiological deterioration? Is the spirit that loved me as a child still in there? Slowly, brilliantly, answers come through. Rays of hope, glimmers of accessibility pierce through the muddied stained glass of neurological ailment. As we sit in the kitchen drinking tea, Grandma describes her heart wrenching divorce fifty-five years in the past. Pain stabs through the cottony clouds of forgetfulness. I stand up and give her a hug. “Oh, thank you!” she exclaims, surprise and happiness mingling. I feel the tingle of connection, a warm rush of recognition. This is Grandma. I don’t think Grandma will ever remember my name. In her metamorphosis my role too has changed. I am now parent. And in this an indelible truth emerges: that above all love transcends the bounds of age and illness. Before, when she had her own house and car and neighborhood, Grandma used to sing me to sleep, a little off key. I see her now in her room singing once again. I return her smile. She recedes into her blanket cocoon, as I begin to stretch my multicolored wings of adulthood.
Carol Apai
Class of 2021 Rutgers New Jersey Medical School 48
