by Elisabeth Long

Created on: November 05, 2009   Last Updated: April 01, 2011

A Granddaughter's Experience

As my mother and I witnessed dementia steal more and more of my grandmother's short term memory and independence, we embarked on a desperate, somewhat haphazard journey to capture and record her memories, our family history, still perhaps accessible from Grandma's mind.

Grandma was born in the United States, the daughter of Hungarian immigrants. At five years of age, having lost the gentle mother she adored, unwanted by her father, my grandmother became an orphan, She grew up during an era of dreams and disillusionment for immigrant families, living in a country that ignored subhuman tenement and work conditions, in a nation whose invitation to the world, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breath free..." stood in direct conflict with the hostile, intolerant regard of many native-born Americans toward immigrants, particularly those of Slavic heritage.

The stories that Grandma related about her life over the years, and even those that she had never wanted to share, defined the person that I knew as my Grandma, but even further, help to define me. My heritage and the history I pass on to my children is richer for having listened and gleaned all that my Grandmother could relate to me about her life and her heritage. By learning this beautiful woman, as narrated from her own perspective, I derive a deeper comprehension of my own identity. Specifically, that the person I am, is tied to the life of my grandmother and others, directly or distantly connected to my family tree. Who I am, inside and out, never originates from me.

As my grandmother's dementia progressed, she often repeated the details or sequence of a particular life event over and over on any given day. Each telling could vary significantly from the last. At first we battled to somehow get Grandma "back on track". My mother would say, "Now Ma, that isn't how it happened." Grandma would either become confused, losing the story line altogether, or she became defiant, insisting, "Yes it is", that she knew the story better than anyone else.

In hindsight, a revelation emerges that may help other families cope with the progression of dementia in a loved one. Recognize that the accuracy of any family history is always subjective at best. It finally occurred to me that the narration of my family history is NOT wherein lies my heritage, rather my heritage is found within the person of my grandmother and in my understanding of her.

As Grandma's ability

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