My dad's mother passed away last night after a five-year battle with Alzheimer's. I still don't know what the official cause was but I knew things hadn't been great lately. She'd had a fever and went in to the hospital about two weeks ago. After a few days the doctors were able to regulate her temperature. Last Sunday, she was in rough shape and on Monday she was doing well. Then Tuesday, things weren't going so well and that's the last thing I'd heard until my mother woke me up at 6 am this morning to break the news.
Most of my memories of her are a little faded, because most of my time with her was spent when I was a kid. She always lived in Brooklyn. When I moved to Illinois in 1997, I didn't get to see her and my grandfather as much as I used to. What was 6 or 7 visits a year became 2 or 3. But I can remember little things. I remember her insisting I wash my face before she took me out for the day. She said she wanted my face so bright she would have to get her sunglasses to look at me. Come to think of it, she never took the glasses out. And that was in the one bathroom in the house. Its walls and ceiling were painted flamingo pink! I remember her semolina toast in the mornings. I remember her slipping me dollar bills when dad wasn't looking. I remember her playing cards with me and my grandfather. I remember watching Victor Borge videos and laughing hysterically at his performance. I remember those Italian Thanksgivings and Christmases in that tiny house. How we got a dozen people in such a cramped place, I'll never know. I've stayed in hotel rooms that were larger than that house she lived in for what must have been 50 years.
But mostly I remember her warm spirit. She was simply one of the most compassionate, selfless people ever. Many times, I'd be riding in the car with her and my grandfather and I'd convince them to put the country music station on (this was so long ago that New York actually had a country music station). I would sing every word to every song and she would try to sing along with me, though her tastes were Frank Sinatra and Barry Manilow. I would have to say she was a little out of the box. She never worked as far as I know, she was a stay-at home wife and mom. She never learned to drive a car. She was tiny, maybe 5-5 and 110 pounds. But she could gamble. She frequently won large sums in Atlantic City and Wildwood, NJ.
Then around 2000, she had two strokes. About 2003, as my college years were winding down, I heard she had the condition. I knew how devastating it is and that it is incurable. I knew things would never be the same.
I saw her three times over her four years in that nursing home. I remember the first time, my dad wheeled her in. From my seat in the lounge, I really thought he was wheeling someone else into the room. She looked so different. The round brown hair was now silver and black and neatly combed over. The left side of her mouth wouldn't move. She could barely speak and I don't think she even recognized me. If you've never dealt with Alzheimer's, that experience will shake reality right down to your boots. The second time she moved a little better. It was a balmy summer afternoon. Dad, Uncle Brian, my cousin, and I took her outside and we sat down by Sheepshead Bay. The last time was about a year ago, about six months after my grandfather had passed away. I don't recall too much, except the visit was pretty quick.
I do remember one thing she said to me at a restaurant in New Jersey around 2001. I was feeling uncertain, a little lost about where I was headed. I explained what I was feeling to her, I just didn't want to go to mom and dad for a change. And I could tell she was slowing down just a little bit. But her heart and wisdom were right there. And she said this to me twice. "Adam, you have to be your own best friend."
Thanks, Nanny, I'm trying. Tell Papa I said hello and I miss him.
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