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Just as you arrive to the third floor and the elevator doors open up, you are usually greeted by three elderly ladies. One is staring at the floor, the other is staring at you, smiling, but with a sad look in her eyes. The third is walking in a circle, mumbling and seems to be searching for an answer that is impossible to find.

Those woman are what represent the world you are about to enter at the local nursing home in Gravenhurst called, "Leisureworld." Leisureworld is also the new home of my grandmother, Peggy. It was also the final place my grandfather would ever see and where he took his last breath.

When I visit Peggy, she's usually wearing her favourite bright red-knitted sweater that I use as a granny beacon to find her. In the rec-room is where she spends most of her time amongst her new friends.

Without the sweater, she is hard to pick out. She blends in well with all the other waiting-for-death inmates. I say "inmates" because I believe if they could make the decision, they would not be there.

That is the problem, they can't make decisions anymore. They are confused and lost. I always get that lump in my throat when I see that my grandmother is enjoying her stay and has become one of them.

There are only so many words to describe the feeling I get when my sweet grandmother, that wrapped her arms around me and told me I was her special little man every time we saw each other, now barely even recognizes me.

I usually tell her who I am. She looks at me with those eyes that were once bright and sparkled when she smiled but are now dull with a sense of sadness and void.

It's hard to say if she really knows who I am. She may know that she's lost and wants to appear normal. It rings true as she always maintains her appearance by getting a perm and dressing proper.

I have a test I put her through that she is unaware of. After I tell her who I am and where I fit in, I mention a quilt she made me when I was eight years old. I still have this quilt and on one corner it reads, "To Matt from Grandma, 1981"

That is the quilt where we both spent a significant amount of time together. The quilt has antique cars painted in the centre of the squares that take up most of the blanket. We sat together and coloured in each car to every detail. Well, you can see which cars I painted as opposed to her professional quilt making precision.

I mention the quilt and the details of it's appearance. She remembers it! She begins to tell me about a tire on one of the cars that I painted, how we tried to fix the mistake. You can't help but feel like Robin Williams character in "Awakenings," trying to find an antidote that will bring her back to normal by throwing a barrage of memory quizzes at her.

No more than five minutes roll by and she asks me who I am and why I'm there.

I repeat that I'm her grandson. I realize that I could probably coax her into the entire conversation over again.

It's hard to watch her mind disintegrate before your eyes. Even though she has company, I can sense she feels left behind. I can still visualize her sitting in a chair, looking out the window with a confused sense of misplaced contentment. She doesn't even know her husband just passed away.

Lucky perhaps. She doesn't have to grieve.

I always wonder if she feels the pain and loss, but doesn't know where it's coming from and can't put it into the proper context of her thoughts and memories.

I can see the sadness in her lost eyes and the smile she uses to hide her confusion.

I remember the times I spent with Peggy as if they were yesterday.

It was yesterday she no longer remembered the quilt.

Learn more about this author, Taylor Ibanez.
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