This Part is Hard

A while ago I wrote about the death of my grandma’s husband, a disappointing husband who was merely the latest in a line of poor life companions she let mistreat her.  But the fact remained that her medical problems and risks made it unsafe for her to live alone anymore.  She didn’t want to live with her daughter because she would have to move away from Utah, and this is her home; I understand that, but it also means that we had to find a place for her in assisted living, which will never be as good as living with Gayla.

But I’ve been thinking about her lately and feeling a bit lost because she’s not coping well.  She’s never had problems being cogent.  Now she has.

She called my mom not too long ago to let us know that Bruce had died.  Because she didn’t remember anything about the funeral, the wake, the brunch with family or dinner later that week.  She was so confused that she wanted to let us know Bruce had died, like it was recent and it’s not.

I’ve never had to deal with this part. The forgetting.  I’ve lost other elderly family who meant the world to me, but they never got confused like this.  My great-grandmother lived to 98 sharp as a needle.  I suppose I should be happy that she still knows we love her and wants to seek comfort, but I’m a little horrified that she’s losing some grip on reality.

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