A Grandpa Summer

This summer I’ve spent quite a bit of time with my grandpa. Usually he knows who I am. He’ll get a big grin and say something like, “Why, it’s my little HB.” HB, of course, being short for Heather Baby. But sometimes I am Christy. Or Jenny. Or little girl. Dustin basically has been relegated permanently to, “That nice repair man who does things with bicycles.”

Spending time with someone who has lost his memory is…challenging. Sometimes I feel energetic and am really good at telling myself that he didn’t lose his memory on purpose- I have a sense of humor when he comes out with my bra tied around his knee because he thinks it is his ace bandage. But other times I feel angry and I clench my fists because he refuses to take a shower or because it’s the twenty-third time in the last hour that he has asked me when Gramma is coming home. I think if I do a better job explaining or if I talk more slowly it might make a difference. But really it doesn’t. It’s like trying to hold up a sandcastle when the wave washes over.

Thoughts come up when I am with Grandpa. Thoughts like, why do children starve to death? Or, how come God allows people to be born without the ability to see or speak or walk? Or, how come He lets people’s minds slip away?

Grandpa always prays before we eat and his prayer always begins the exact same way. Dear Lord, we are yours. That phrase really sticks in the mind, doesn’t it? We are yours. Sometimes I’m Job, slapping my hand over my mouth- who am I to question the goodness of God. Did I create the stars and the oceans? Did I create laughter? We are yours. Occasionally I intellectualize and I push my red wire frame glasses a bit higher on my nose and think, “Well, working with Grandpa and his dementia has been a great opportunity for me to grow as an individual and I am so much more aware of my deep rooted character flaws and boy oh boy, I’m so glad that God is using this time to make me a stronger person.” We are yours. Really, when it boils down to the very end of a very long day, I feel grateful that it is not me who holds the world in my fingertips. I feel grateful that I can crawl on all fours into the palm of His hands and know that He loves me and cares when I am hurting and when I am tired and when I am discouraged. He cares when Grandpa is hurting and tired and discouraged. And I feel a trace of peace, knowing that we are His.