This story was written on Sep. 24 by me.
I didn’t have many memories with my grandfather.
Dad told me when I was little, I was the most beloved kid in the family. My grandpa would take me anywhere I want and give me anything I’d like. It felt like as long as I am happy to be with him, everything is worth it. I always pictured what my dad told me about grandpa, because when I grew old enough to remember him, he had forgotten everyone of us.
“Dementia,” they said, “took away his memories of you and me.” 11-year-old-me then could not understand the pain in my father’s eyes. I couldn’t remember the times I had been with grandpa when I was little, nor could I appreciate him. As I grew bigger, friends took over the place of family in my heart. I stopped visiting my grandparents, and somehow forgot them in life.
I didn’t realize how foolish I was, until one day an emergency call from my dad, urging me to go and see my grandpa right away. But both my dad and I knew that it was all too late.
My grandpa passed away during sleep. He looked like he was just asleep. That night, I sat down next to him. For the first time in my life, I was deeply regretful and full of sorrow. Even in the last minute of his life, he still couldn’t remember who I was and I couldn’t remember who he had been. I buried my feelings and pretended I don’t need to know about grandpa. I neglected him.
But the reality is that I was afraid to see his face—whenever we went to see him, there was only confusion on his face. Ever since he had dementia, he stayed in bed and stared at the ceiling above him. I always wondered if he was suffering, and such feelings made me want to cry.
Perhaps it is the best, now that he is free and no beds or ceilings could confine him, and most importantly he is out of the limbo where his memories and mind were stuck.
Yes, certainly. He sure is living in a better place now, happily and without worries.