Welcome — However You Found Your Way Here
The Cruelty of Forgetting
Forgetting your keys, your wallet, or even milk from the grocery store is frustrating. But watching someone you love slowly forget you—that’s a pain words can barely capture. Alzheimer’s and dementia don’t just steal memories; they steal the shared history that binds us, leaving the afflicted unaware and their loved ones carrying it all alone.
It’s tragic and cruel growing up and living with someone with Alzheimer’s.
My grandpa had Alzheimer’s when I was growing up. Sometimes he looked at me and saw a stranger, not the grandchild he once held in his arms. I didn’t understand why he would look at me like that.
I hated it, didn’t understand as a kid, and I would cause trouble to my grandpa because of his Alzheimer’s.
I wasn’t the only one who was suffering though.
My grandma had to retire from work early to care for him, while my dad would rush home from work early to ensure he didn’t wander too far from his routines or get lost.
Every day felt like a delicate balance between vigilance and heartbreak.
Out of frustration, I used to lock the door when he was outside. He’d pull at it until you could swear it was about to come off its hinges. My grandma would yell at me to open it, and I would. He’d walk in as if nothing happened, past me like I didn’t exist.
It was worse than being ignored.
I remember sleeping over at their house as a kid. In the dead of night, something hit my head. In the dark, through bleary eyes, I saw my grandpa standing over me. He tapped my head three times, as though fluffing a strange pillow, and not hitting my head full force.
Unnerving, yes—but I was tired, and I went back to sleep with a dull headache.
My grandma told me he would call her “fat lady” when he forgot her. She would walk back into the room, then back to the living room, and he’d remember. He’d ask where “the fat lady” went, and she’d tell him she’d gone home.
Moments of Lucidity
Occasionally, there were brief windows of clarity. He would shower, eat, dress himself, and speak to my grandma as he used to. He always followed his routines: cleaning the yard, walking to McDonald’s for coffee, sitting at the tables, then walking back home.
He would hum to himself, a simple melody without words. I can barely remember the tune now, but it reminded us he was alive, present, even when he wasn’t fully there.
Those moments were fleeting, yet precious—tiny glimpses of the man we knew and loved. They were a cruel gift: the contrast between what he could remember in fragments and what he had already lost made every shared moment bittersweet.
The Weight on Loved Ones
Alzheimer’s doesn’t just affect the person with the disease. It reshapes the lives of everyone around them. My grandma, my dad, and I were constantly alert, walking the line between guiding him and letting him retain independence.
Friends and neighbors understood the weight we carried. They knew who my grandpa was before Alzheimer’s took him—a presence lost, yet physically still with us.
We were caring for someone trapped in a body that refused to remember, and the emotional toll was relentless.
My grandma made new routines for him: jumping on a trampoline, writing his name repeatedly on paper, practicing tai chi—anything to keep his body moving and give them both a shared activity. He enjoyed these moments, and they gave structure and connection amidst the chaos.
A Brave Choice
Alzheimer’s didn’t kill my grandpa. His medication did. In a rare moment of clarity, his doctor explained the medicine could help his Alzheimer’s—but it carried a risk of a heart attack.
My grandpa chose clarity, fully aware of the danger. Tragically, my family wasn’t home when he passed. That night, he showered, ate, and talked with my grandma as himself. When he said he was “going home,” my grandma wasn’t prepared for how she found him the next morning.
He went to sleep and never woke up again.
His courage in the face of such risk was both heartbreaking and awe-inspiring—a final assertion of agency in a life stolen by disease.
Yet it felt like a deep wound being shoved with salt: painful, deeply hurtful, and full of nothing but lingering regrets.
Fragments That Remain
All that’s left of him for me are his wedding band, his watch, his love for Nutter Butters (despite him not wearing his dentures), and snippets of the tune he used to hum.
These fragments are sacred—they’re proof he existed beyond the fog Alzheimer’s created.
The Ripple Effect
Alzheimer’s ripples through families, friendships, and communities. It teaches grief, patience, and the value of presence. It forces us to treasure the small things: a smile, a remembered joke, a touch, a familiar gesture.
Because once they’re gone, they may never return.
Hold onto your loved ones, and hold onto the memories you create together. There’s no way to predict what will be forgotten or remembered—but every moment matters.
Awareness & Action
Alzheimer’s and dementia are cruel not just for the afflicted, but for everyone who loves them. Educate yourself, check in on your loved ones, and offer support to caregivers—you never know how deeply this disease can touch lives.
If my story touched you, or helped you understand even a fraction of what it’s like to live with—or love someone with—Alzheimer’s, I invite you to like, share, and subscribe.
Not just to support my blog, but to help raise awareness about this devastating disease that touches so many lives.
June is Alzheimer’s & Brain Awareness Month in the U.S., and September is World Alzheimer’s Month globally.
Use these moments to educate yourself, support caregivers, and advocate for those whose memories are slowly stolen away. Every action, every conversation, every shared story matters more than you could know.
