DeWayne Wentz twibute

If you've never seen it's effects first-hand, then there's no way you can understand. Every time I walk into my Pappaw's apartment, I cherish the moment that he recognizes me. I sit and watch Westerns with him, every hour or so excusing myself out to the balcony to smoke, and I laugh when he teases me about the smoking. When he gets my name right on the first try, I smile. Every once in a while, when he remembers something from years ago, I feel proud of him. When I ask him a question for our family tree and he's able to answer it, a part of me wants to light up and say, "You remembered, Pappaw!" And then it gets late - by his standards anyway - and he decides he wants to go to bed. When I am there, I help my uncle put him to bed, which is quite a task but one that I do not mind. I spent the years between fourteen and seventeen doing this by myself a lot. After he's in bed, I will sit in the chair next to his bed and watch more TV with him, talk to him. Sometimes he talks out of his head, but it doesn't happen too often - not yet anyway. Somehow I love the smile he gets on his face when I ask him something that he can't remember - almost as if he's thinking, "I can't remember but maybe if I just show her this wry little smile she'll be too amused to care." Every time he remembers, I hold it in as long and as deeply as I can, because I know the days of him remembering are only numbered. The pain of watching your only living grandparent slowly lose their memories, their ability to take care of themself, oneself in his entirety, is inexplicable. Sometimes, when I tell my Pappaw I am going to go smoke, I don't just go outside on the balcony, alone, to smoke. Sometimes I go out there to cry. Usually this is on one of his bad days, when he can't remember how old I am or where I work or has to call me by four different names before he gets it right. I remember being a little girl. I remember how he once walked tall, his 5'10" shadow overpowering me by a country mile. I remember a time before his speech was slurred by his stroke and when he would stand and shave his own face. I remember him being able to dress himself and being able to tie his own shoes. I remember him taking me with him to pick my mother up late at night from work, and he would get me munchies from Sheetz. I remember the time I was sleeping between him and my Grandma when I was a little girl, and I got sick, threw up all over their bed, me crying because I felt bad and them telling me that it was OK, I couldn't help it. I remember the time when I was four that I got very, very sick in the middle of the night and he drove me and my mother to the hospital - they didn't even take the time to dress me, so I went in my nightgown, with an inability to breathe and a fever of 104. I remember him driving period. Sometimes I hate myself for remembering because I know that's something he can't always do. Now I watch him struggle, and this is what I will remember. I will remember watching him have trouble eating, asking him if he wanted me to help him, and him saying no. I say "OK," and smile. I will remember him not being able to dress himself. I will remember him no longer being able to stand and shave his face. I will remember him not always knowing who I am and sometimes giving me that wry smile when I walk in because he doesn't know who I am right away. I will remember an unsureness in his voice when he talks about things from the past, like he's thinking, "I think that's how it went, anyway." I will remember speaking to him, then when I am finished, he says, "What?" As you've noticed, I usually just smile when his mind glitches, but sometimes I can't help but look at him with sadness in my eyes. I will remember finishing the cigarette from the balcony and then using the sleeve of my hoodie to dry my eyes up as much as I possibly can, because I do not want him to know that I have cried. His disease was suspected for a long time before his actual diagnosis. In January 2007, not too long after my Grandma, his wife, had died, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. Sometimes I consider him lucky in the way that he was diagnosed after there were medications to help with the symptoms and possibly slow down the progression of the disease. There is no cure though, and sooner or later, it will take him over completely. I dread that day. That day is the reason I go out the balcony, light up my cigarette, and cry. I often find myself staring at him when I visit. I don't know why. I guess I'm trying to freeze-frame his face in my mind. That way, long after he can't remember who he himself is or who I am or why I'm visiting him - I will.