What Alzheimers Steals

We've called him Opa since the day he first cradled me in the small German town where I was born.  A tall man of few words, content to sit in the corner of family gatherings and observe, sipping his favorite beer.  Kind eyes and so gentle and he made sure I knew I was adored, his only granddaughter.

 

How do I reconcile this with what Alzheimer's has turned him into, this frail, 92-year-old veteran of war, builder of parts for the first space shuttle, gift-giver, fisherman.  He pushed a nurse hard against a fish tank at his nursing home yesterday.  He spilled out anger and threats.  He's turned mean and it makes me ache. 

For many years he has joined us at family gatherings, and true to its symptoms, Alzheimer's has erased his short term memory, so that when my girls walk into the room he says repeatedly, "Who are these pretty little girls?"  I know their smiley sweetness stirs up memories in him of when I was young and we would hunt for shells along the Florida beach or go fishing in Canada or shoe-shopping in St. Louis.

Oma died years ago and he is lost.  How frustrating it must be to grasp for shreds of memory and never take hold.  Empty hands.  Aching heart.  Tired soul. 

This morning, I am sending him long, hard prayers across the miles, for small moments of joy in old memories bubbling up from spaces preserved in his mind.  Visions of teaching his little granddaughter how to drive a boat on a cool, clean Canadian lake, where everything was clear as glass.

And I thank God upon every remembrance of you, Opa. -Phil. 1:3

Even when you don't remember me.

Your pretty little girl.