The Miracle

My grandmother—a loving, generous, strong, spirited woman—had Alzheimer's disease. After a feisty time with her at the beginning of her disease, my grandma became as sweet as a kitten. She, who had shown me the most love I had ever received in my life, went through a period when her disease started to kick in, where she would waver back and forth between asking for my help and challenging me, or looking at me with dagger eyes. Once she got settled into a nursing home, where she received round-the-clock care, she also eventually settled into her illness, becoming the sweetest person on this planet, full of the love I had always known, every time she saw me.

After a rough beginning, the joy on her face whenever I visited her was heartwarming. Once, when I came to visit her at the nursing home, there was a concert there, with about 100 people in the audience. I scanned the room, looking all over for my grandma. I finally spotted her—front row, center. That was my grandma, alright!

She was a hip kind of grandma who always made sure all of her grandkids had wonderful experiences. She was a "lake girl" who taught me (and all my friends) how to water ski, and when we came back into the house after a big day on the water, sun-drenched and waterlogged, she would have the air conditioner cranked with a big pot of piping hot chili waiting on the stove. That's just one example of the kind of grandma she was. When I was a kid, she made sure I had hullabaloo go-go boots with fishnet stockings every color of the time—shocking pink, neon green, etcetera. She even bought us matching paper mini dresses!

She drove a car at 12, hitchhiked to St. Louis at 14, had my mom at 17, became a keypunch operator, and worked her way up to managing a big office at IBM. All while being the most loving person I've ever known in my life! My hero—my role model.

With her disease, I was blessed that she always knew who I was. Our bond was incredible. I'd crawl in bed with her at the nursing home, and we'd hold hands and watch a football game together (not really watching)—just being together. Two peas in a pod.

A few years after living in the nursing home, I got a call that my grandma had a stroke and was in the hospital. She could not talk, eat food, or swallow, but was still able to show love. In the time she was there, every time I came to visit, she would make a sound—ooh!—she was always so happy to see me. She would take the one arm she could move and hug me tight and pat me on the back.

All along while my grandma was in the hospital, I played this little game with her, because every time I did it, it was new to her, and it brought her so much happiness. I'd walk into her room, saying to her, "Guess what, grandma? Devon (my daughter) is graduating high school next week!" My grandma would make a happy "Ooh!" and smile in awe and excitement. I'd immediately go around the corner, pop out, and do it all over, again and again, getting the same reaction—seeing her joy. With her disease, it was new every time!

I also had to make tough decisions about her care and her life. One was to get a feeding tube. When I filled out her healthcare directive, I did it with a nun. I wanted to make the right decisions, and it was very difficult. I imagined a person totally out of it—not someone who could still show love. I didn't want her to experience pain or suffering. I wanted her to be comfortable. I learned it was best to keep her hydrated because otherwise, it would be a very painful experience for her.

I felt like she received a mixed bag of care...