To love is to know, to care is to love.

Sometimes I feel like a boat going nowhere, stranded in the middle of the ocean, with ripples crossing my path saying there is land somewhere.

I watched how my grandma succumbed to Alzheimer’s and how difficult it was to remain calm and steady with all that was happening, the insanity of it. I watched others in denial, I watched how she remained aware sometimes and sometimes unaware of her behavior. I watched the downfall and was with her in her last days.

Today I saw a post reminding me of all this: Pay attention to the signs, it says. Shrinking person, it says. I cry because it’s hard to pay attention to the signs, you don’t know what is around the corner, and you don’t know what to pay attention to most days. Sometimes you forget yourself — like a boat in the middle of the ocean.

Sometimes you forget yourself. It ceases to matter if you matter because all it matters is the wellbeing of others — all it matters, all it matters. You don’t really cease to exist, because the other person is ceasing. You don’t really exist, because the other person is still here. And from the depths of the heart, the difficult part is watching the slow decay, fast decay, slow decay, fast decay.

I saw my grandma transform into another person — insanity, but we laughed sometimes because it doesn’t make sense, it just doesn’t. And we cry sometimes because it doesn’t make sense, it just doesn’t. And we stay. We stay until the end, even if it’s hard — or we are supposed to.

I saw my grandma somebody else. Some-body-else. Not her.

I saw the decay of behavior and the decay of expression. The less it was there.

I was the first person my grandma forgot — who is that beautiful girl sitting there? Oh, she’s pretty! My 8-year-old cousin was great at replying, with the wishful thinking she would remember again, she never did remember me again. I cry writing this, because it’s difficult to see it, witnessing it. I lived with her and I saw her final 3 years and it was the most painful experience in my life. I saw her and I was only able to cry about it years later when I was finally able to let go of the pain and just allow myself to sink in… she died a wonderful old lady with a lot to say but the words wouldn’t come out. She would reach out her hand wishing to talk, but she couldn’t, so she would give up.

I’m sorry about the horror story here, but in all fairness, Alzheimer’s is probably one of the worst things that can happen to someone.

I went through stages of denial. I do not want to ever go through this again, I told myself millions of times — not again, millions. I still cry every day, it’s impossible to be “unfeeling” about this, to not care, to not love.

I still have the feeling of my grandma’s hand on mine, really soft hands.