Dementia stole colours of life

Dementia could not become hindrance on the path of the love I had for my grandma

Dementia became no hindrance on the path of the love I had for my grandma

My grandma used to be a brilliant painter. Horses and bright birds could be seen on the walls of her house racing. During my childhood, she and I used to fill the pages of colouring books together. It was during that time when she taught me everything essential to know for the child of that age, like the monarch of the 16th-century and microbiology. She was smilingly compassionate whom I would always request to draw new things for me, knowing that her knowledge was limitless and there would be no end. Then, once she was requested to draw a clock.

The clock she drew was misshapen and bent, the hands of the clock were disconnected and its numbers piled on one side. The clock was of no use concerning telling a time but it told something important: my grandma had dementia.

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On that day all of sudden, she lost her driving license and her independence. After a few months, events happened in quick succession and she lost her mental strength. Finally, she permanently settled in the hospital at the nursing home.

That was the first time I visited my grandma there in the nursing home. The nursing home itself was a nice place but its environment was frightening which still haunts my memory. The premise remained the same, visitors would come and go. You only leave when you die. Beds were routinely filled and emptied like dirty sheets.

The home’s walls just like the exact reflection of my grandma old house were covered but the only difference here was that the walls were decorated with the pictures of the aged photos of the residents.

I always thought that the pictures decorating the walls could tell about the lifestyle in a far better way than the residents themselves. The place was entirely different with full of echoes, with opera songs all around, an old man rolling on their chairs, and grandma entirely lost her passion for drawing lively, fascinating and charming images.

To give her company, we would visit her on Saturday. To keep her entertained and happy, we fixed TV, photos, her paintings, and a whiteboard my dad would write poems on. To keep active the mind of my grandma, my father would write half verse so that the rest my grandma could complete.

As time moved on, many poems were unfinished, waiting for my grandma to complete them.

Along with poems, there were a lot of paintings and photos of the time, which grandma could not recall. Also, there were photos of the events that were decorating the room but my grandmother did not remember them. She was unable to do anything and could not name the people who were smiling in the photos.

During our last visit, my father did not like me to come because she would not want to be remembered in her difficult moments of life. But I made my choice of visiting my grandma. When I saw, her skin was pale, she was unable to move on her bed, her mouth was half open and her face was turned to the ceiling.

That day my grandma died and left with us the only sweet moments as memory to feel her presence with us.

Francis Kahn

Francis Kahn is a freelance journalist who joined recently. With an eye for spotting interesting news bits, he composes raw materials in short bites, ensuring that whatever will be published on the website is important and well-curated

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