Yesterday, my family and I had the special opportunity to
have lunch with my Mammaw. After our morning dentist appointments, we arrived
to the nursing home just in time to make arrangements for her lunch to be
brought to her room in order for us to have an early birthday celebration.
Tomorrow she will be 81 years old. Dementia has been part of
her life for several years and her declining health has caused us to believe
she was headed to Glory in many scary instances. But tomorrow, she’s 81!
The disease has stolen a lot from her. It’s stolen a lot
from our family. But it cannot claim everything.
Yesterday’s celebration was much different than birthdays in
years past.
When I took hold of her wheelchair as she sat in the
hallway, I knelt down and said, “Mammaw, it’s me, Sydney. I brought my family
to celebrate your birthday a little early.”
She looked puzzled, but she smiled.
“Mammaw, I made a strawberry cake.”
She smiled bigger.
“And it’s a Duncan Hines!”
She cackled with laughter and I rolled her down the hall.
“I’m sure it’s going to be real good!”
“I sure hope so!”
Celebrations are different for many reasons.
One being, I made the cake. That was a task that Mammaw
owned for many, many years. And though we both esteem Duncan Hines cake mixes to
be the best choice (and food allergy friendly for us), I know I’ll never be
able to master her caramel cake.
Dementia cannot steal Mammaw’s legacy.
Known for her mastery of baking a caramel cake and being
able to make cathead biscuits with her eyes closed, my grandmother knew her way
around the kitchen well. Her fried chicken on Sunday afternoons could help cure
anything that went wrong the week before and help motivate me to have a more
positive outlook for the upcoming week.
As I helped her with her lunch yesterday, we had a few
laughs because she let me know I wasn’t feeding her as fast as she wanted.
“That’s mighty good! Keep it coming!”
She prepared countless meals for me and helped teach me the
importance of hospitality, and yesterday reminded me that time sure has changed
things for her.
She spent years waiting on others hand and foot, donning a
faded apron, of course. And there she sat. As I fed her, she never quite
understood who I was, but she was glad I was there and she was so happy to see
my family.
She played footsie with my almost 2 year old and she chatted
about animals and music with my almost 4 year old. And occasionally she would ask Joseph about
something that was random to us, but the topic held importance to her at the
time.
Dementia cannot steal Mammaw’s joy.
Though she couldn’t quite pinpoint how she knew me, she was
full of joy. Confusion didn’t taint the celebration. We were all simply
grateful to be with one another.
Mammaw laughed with my girls over silly nuances and insisted
that they eat more cake than they needed.
Dementia cannot steal what Mammaw
means to me.
My heart is still overwhelmed by
the Lord’s kindness in giving us a celebration with her yesterday. But even
more so, I am humbled and honored that He chose her to be my grandmother.
For 31 of her 81 years she’s told
me, “You’re my girl!” (“girl” said with the thickest southern accent you can
imagine.)
She may never be able to recall my
name at a moment’s notice again, but that doesn’t discount all we have shared.
I’m glad to be “Mrs. Neill’s granddaughter” and pray that this year allows us
to create more memories together, even if I’ll be the only one of the two of us
who is able to remember them.
