"Grace like rain falling down on me," the song goes. And yes, sometimes it is like that. But, being a thickheaded and clueless man (common side effects of my breed), most often God's method of choice with me is "grace like a baseball thrown at the back of my head." Case in point, my almost 100-year-old grandmother. She's been slowly withering away in the full-time care unit of a convalescent home for a few years now.

I got a message from my mother recently. The head nurse at the home had contacted her. Grandma was losing weight and getting weaker. My mother said she never expected her to last out the year.

Virtually every time my mother has called in the last few years, I have searched the tone of her voice in her first words. The moment she says hello, I try to detect whether the next words will be, "honey, your grandmother passed away this morning." Every time.

So, I did something that I have rarely done on my own as an adult. I went to visit my Gammy.

She is in the Alzheimer's unit, a locked-down cellblock that prevents the incarcerated from wandering out into the wide-open world of their dementia. I have often wondered whether there is a dual purpose to the security door, whether this was more for their safety or ours.

There she sat in her chair, watching a TV she could not see, her eyes cloudy with glaucoma. The nurses obviously turn the TV on so the image of this blind, frail, old woman alone in her room is not quite so depressing. Somehow the flickering lights and sounds made the scene artificially less heartbreaking. An infomercial about home mortgages was on; chatty energetic snake oil sellers trying to convince you how easy it is to consolidate your debt, improve your credit score and pave the way to financial stability. I am sure this was of deep interest to Gammy.

I knelt down in front of her and took her hand gently. I came in close to her ear and screamed, "Hi Grandma! It's Pat!" She hardly moved, and then mumbled something I took to be a form of greeting. She sounded confused. Her gaze seemed to try to outline my image like a silhouette. Perhaps all she saw was light and dark, and this is how she looked at people now. I hoped she saw light.

Her eyes drifted back to the TV, then not really at it but above it, to the corner of the room. I wondered what it was that she really saw, what images played behind those gray eyes; what show or memory or fantasy was playing on that screen she was watching.

I sat on the couch beside

• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• next page >>

---

Add your voice

Know something about Reflections: Memories of my grandmother?
We want to hear your view. Write now!