My grandmother clutched the insulated lunch bag with her name written in black marker and looked through the van window at the small brick house where she has lived for over 50 years in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. It was around 7 on a Friday evening, when my family got a call from the van dispatcher. The driver had picked up my grandmother at the senior center she attends each weekday, as usual, but when the van arrived at her house she refused to get off. The home care aide waiting for her couldn’t persuade her to come inside, either. My grandmother Mary, 83, was getting agitated, and so were the other elderly passengers. My grandmother is one of more than five million Americans who have Alzheimer’s disease. Sometimes these patients experience sun-downing, a period of increased confusion and restlessness toward the end of the day, and my grandmother was having one of these episodes. It is hard to know how to handle these situations, but it is best to have family around because patients can say upsetting things or even become physical. My father is 57, my grandmother’s eldest child, and the first person called when she starts to have an episode. That evening he was at work and wouldn’t have been able to make it to my grandmother’s for another hour. My mother and I were close by and were able to get there quickly — luckily, because if we didn’t, the van company would have called the police. (This has happened before.) When we arrived that Friday evening, I told my mother to stay in the car while I tried to persuade Grandma to come off the bus. I silently prayed that when my grandmother saw my face, her mood would change. Alzheimer’s has stolen her recollection of the people closest to her, but the face she always seems to remember is my father’s. His olive complexion, deep brown eyes and wide grin bear a striking resemblance to Grandma’s brother, Joe, who died at the age of 43, decades ago. She will often refer to my father as her brother, but will always call him by his name, Jimmy. I look similar to my father, so I was hoping this would play to my advantage. When I was younger, my parents would take me to my grandparents’ almost every Sunday, alternating between our maternal and paternal grandparents’ houses. There was always a big Italian dinner with our cousins, all girls on both sides of the family. At Grandma Mary’s and Grandpa Rocky’s, after we all had emptied our plates per Grandma’s orders, my cousins and I would dance along to the music in their jukebox, a rotating mix of old Italian songs, Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett along with soundtracks from their favorite mob movies. On Christmas my father was Santa and even now, though the cousins are all over 18, we make him dress up, because the tradition has become very important to us. My father is a bridge between generations. During family dinners, he would take out old photos of his grandparents and tell us all about them. Even though I never met them, my father has told their stories so many times I can repeat them verbatim. If I drove with you down the stretch of Flatbush Avenue from Kings Plaza to the Brooklyn Bridge, I could probably tell you a story about a milestone in one of my grandparents’ or great-grandparents’ lives by passing certain landmark buildings (thanks, Dad). On certain holidays we all make a trip to the cemetery. We usually have two cars full of family members, and visit three generations of deceased love ones, all buried in different areas of the cemetery. Dad knows the way to each gravesite. With his storytelling and insistence on family outings, he has taught me and my two sisters that family is a gift as well as a responsibility. Through the years, we went on a few small weekend trips with my grandparents, parents, aunt, uncle and cousins, but there was one time when my grandfather, Rocky, insisted we all take a cruise. The next year, he died, just a month shy of his 50th wedding anniversary, and after that, my grandmother’s Alzheimer’s grew more apparent. My father and aunt had hard decisions to make about her care. She couldn’t be alone, yet she wasn’t ready (our family wasn’t ready) to put her in a nursing home. It took a while to find home aides who clicked with Grandma, so in between college and part-time jobs, each of the seven granddaughters took a day with Grandma. My father didn’t have to force us; we knew from the way we had been raised that it was our generation’s turn to do our part.
Jeanine Grimaldi, 26, is writer and publishing professional who was born and raised in Brooklyn.
Previous From Our Children essays can be found here.
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