Grandpa Has Alzheimer's

By Judy M. Miller

Bruce, my father-in-law, died from Alzheimer's four and one-half years ago. My husband and I were faced with how to explain this progressive disease when he was diagnosed ten years earlier.

Our oldest son was nine-years-old, our two daughters were a preschooler and a toddler, and our youngest son was an infant. It would be some time before they would be able to understand what was going on with Grandpa. And they would, with tenderness and patience. We sat in the family room huddled in a pile for emotional support and security on our comfy couch. Their dad and I sat on the coffee table facing them and holding hands. We leaned in to close our family circle, to be there for any of us when we needed it.

Our oldest picked up the somber vibe immediately. We kept it simple. Grandpa was losing his memory and he would remember less as his brain became sicker.

Our son asked, "Will he forget me?"

My four-year-old asked in her soft voice, "Me too, Mama?"

My two-year-old sucked her thumb, seeking to soothe herself in the shadows of sadness and grief washing over all of us. My infant son slept in my arms, unaware for now.

We shared the tough facts with our young kids and expanded on them as our oldest asked questions. We explained how dementia would impact their grandpa, how it might impact each of us, and how it would alter our relationships with the man we deeply loved.

We shared that there would come a time when he would not remember them, their names, or his relationship with them. Grandpa would not remember their dad-his only son-or his three daughters. He would not know who his wife of over 50 years was, their grandmother.

Hiccupping sobs punctuated the awful news. Telling stories lightened the sober evening and reinforced memories. Hugs and back-rubbing provided comfort.

Our son had noticed small details; Grandpa struggled to recall, things and getting lost for two hours when driving to his granddaughter's wedding reception in the city he lived in his entire life.

Our oldest asked quietly, "Is Grandpa going to die from this?"

"We'll see what the future holds," my husband said, his voice breaking. Unshed tears glistened in his eyes.

Our oldest began to cry again, then our four-year-old, and our two-yearold. Our baby slept. We offered love and support.

We kept our interactions as normal as before he was diagnosed. We talked to him as if he was still healthy as he became sicker. We told him we loved him. We hugged him and read to him often.

We did things with him that he enjoyed, like walking and watching TV. We were patient when he forgot the words or was confused. We watched over him so that it was harder for him to wander from his house. We grieved for ten years as we watched him slip away.

I discovered that an effective way to support my mother-in-law, as well as give her a break from caring for him, was to keep my kids around their grandfather, albeit supervised. Our kids and Bruce's other grandchildren brought a smile to his face and gentled him. Indeed, I found myself driving to the big box close to their house with my youngest daughter when he wandered from his house one summer morning. My mother-in-law was frantic and called me. He would not get into her car.

My youngest daughter, then ten, stretched her delicate hand out to him and patted the spot next to her in the back seat. Smiling, she called to him, "Come on, Papaw."

He came like a lamb and put his arm around her, like how he used to hold her before his mind became so foggy. Upon returning to Grandma and Grandpa's house, the two enjoyed popsicles, as if it was an everyday occurrence at 9 am.

Sometimes Bruce stood for hours on the perimeter of our gatherings watching Grandma and us interact, typically around our kitchen table. For years, he was able to engage, communicate, and feel. Eventually, as his dementia worsened, there was little to no engagement or emotional acknowledgment of us.

However, his gentleness towards his grandchildren, especially the youngest ones, remained a part of him, as did his manners. Always the gentleman, he pulled a chair out for me to sit in only a week or so before he died when I visited him in the nursing home.