My Memaw has lost herself. She is really only a wisp of someone she used to be. That's what Alzheimer's does to a person. She has never been formally diagnosed, but there's really no bones about it. Her sister had it, and so does she. The thing about this disease that is so cruel, is that it forces you to grieve for someone you love years before they take their last breath. After all, who are you without your memories? Without a past? When you don't know your own kids from the mailman? I don't know. Neither my does Memaw, on most days.
About a year ago I wrote something about her, and me. I wrote down what I remembered of her from my childhood in an effort to help me remember what she certainly couldn't anymore. I'm sure some of these memories are exclusive to me, but I sort of hoped my cousins would be able to recall some of this stuff, too. A little something we could hang onto together. I only shared it with a couple of people then, mostly because I didn't want to make everybody cry. Now, though, I want to share it. Sometimes it's good to cry. So, here goes:
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When I was a child my Memaw was a sturdy brown hen. She was round and ruddy and constantly clucked over the state of my hair. She smelled of perfume, lipstick, and powder. She claimed that camphor could cure anything. She would put an over-large spoon into my small fist and turn me loose in her backyard, where I would make the most exquisite mud-pies. Inside Memaw's house I dressed up in old too-big dresses, hid in closets, ad sampled every bottle of her perfume. Memaw would sit on the living room couch and crochet or shuffle cards while she watched the soaps, and I would watch her. Her fingernails were long and magenta and her hands were nimble. She sometimes drew pretty girls for me to color, and made the very best grits when I wanted a snack. Now I am a woman and my Memaw is diminished. She is slight and pale, slow and quiet. She sits silently and reads or watches movies inside her own head. She shuffles her feet instead of cards, but still manages to cluck over my hair. Most days she knows me, but when she doesn't I assure her it's ok, because I know her. She is ever so slowly slipping away, but the little girl in me holds fast to her weakened hands. In my own recollections my Memaw will forever be the rhythm of a sewing machine, a bent spoon caked with clay. She is a sturdy old oak, a smooth round stone, a game of solitaire. She is the sound of crochet needles, the scent of Navy. She is a clumsy drawing of a pretty girl, and the perfect bowl of instant grits with extra butter and even more love. One day soon, my Memaw will forget even herself, but I will always remember her.
