If the purpose of life is to come into deeper communion with the present moment, and to enjoy the life of the mind, what does it mean when you grow old and begin to lose that mind?
My grandmother won't eat. It's another day at the Alzheimer's ward of the care facility that has been her home now for the past month. When I push the button and walk in the usually locked doors, I begin to glance around. I look around like I walk, quickly and with purpose. If I pause to gaze on the sadness, I will be too vulnerable and elderly, out of their mind women will try to talk to me.
As I spot my grandmother, one of the residents greets me with her customary "Hey Boy..." I try not to jump out of my skin and wait for the second half of the greeting, "...when you get done with her, come have some fun with me."
I keep moving past another resident who stands outside of her room and tries to invite me in to look at her stuffed animals, pictures and things. The residents all share the same kind of loneliness. It's a loneliness that's even deeper than regular human loneliness. It's an emotion that comes only when you can't even rely on your own mind, on your own self, and you don't know who you are anymore.
My grandmother is weak. She won't eat because she says she doesn't have an appetite. But she keeps dropping weight, more than 20 pounds since she first entered the nursing home. Maw Maw is starving to death and doesn't even know it. She can barley walk 40 feet and has to take breaks. She's cold and has a sweater either on or by her side no matter what the temperature is. She remembers the past very well but can't remember short term conversation. She asks for the code for the door in a round about way, saying things like, "how did you find me?"
Like my dad, I have begun to tell her the code. I feel that if she can remember it, she deserves her ten or so paces of freedom before she is dragged back in by the nursing staff. I realize however, that Maw Maw's chances of remembering the code are about as good as me hitting a home run out of Busch Stadium. She cries over things that happened 60 years ago and asks the same three questions over and over again.
It's amazing to see this once proud woman, who lived an active life not even want to go anywhere. When I asked if she wanted to go out for a frosty (something she used to do with my brother, sister and I when we were young), she said she didn't have the energy or the appetite. When I tried to take her on a car ride, she didn't want to go. When I brought her the Stewart's Hot Dog she asked for, she claimed to be nauseous and threw the covers over her head when I unwrapped it.
I hate going to the hospital, but I feel like I have an obligation to continue to go every morning for the remainder of my vacation. I may not be able to get my grandmother to take even a baby bite of food, but I can provide a break in the monotony of institution life while she still knows who I am. I still have not answered my question, but it brings to life the blessing at the end of night prayer: "May the Lord grant you a restful night, and a peaceful death."
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