A few years ago, when my sweet Grammy was negotiating the maze of Alzheimer’s Disease, I wrote a whole series of poems about it and about her. I didn’t do anything with them because, although they were written with bald and unflinching love, I thought they might hurt my grandfather. Just the simplicity of them on the page when nothing felt simple at all.
Now, both my grandparents are gone, and one of those poems has seen the light of day in an anthology from Kent State University Press called Beyond Forgetting: Poetry and Prose About Alzheimer’s Disease. It is a rather lovely and tender book, filled with heartbreak and humor and all sorts of amazing writing by folks you’ve never heard of and folks you have. It turns out Alzheimer’s Disease is kind of like cancer. Everybody knows somebody…
My poem in the anthology is called The Suitcase Propped Open, and it’s about helping my grandmother pack for a summer at their cottage on Lake Michigan. The one I’m going to share today is another from the same series, later in the progression of the disease.
The Slow and the Sudden
December 26, 1999
Breakfast is a quiet, subtle meal –
last night’s fatty lamb still rich in the air –
and yet, the simple textures of soft boiled egg,
of plain toast on her tongue are excruciating.
The melony walls, everyday china, her own
daughter’s voice – everything glares unfamiliar
and threatening as a foreign alphabet.
The shift to this moment is invisible – newspaper
on the table, coffee milky and warm, a single
cardinal keeping chickadees from the suet near the glass.
And then, an ordinary exhale and she is on her feet,
loud and panicked. “Somebody help,” she calls, moving
quickly through the kitchen and into the garage.
“Somebody help. They’ve got me in here.”
Yelling again and again into the hollow air
and out the open door into the snow – her husband,
daughter and son-in-law trying to catch up, to reassure
her they are kin and are where they should be.
But with a sibyl’s insistence she keeps on, her voice box
divining what nobody else yet knows: she will leave today,
fighting and terrified in the back seat,
and won’t call this place home again.
Congrats on having your poem included in the anthology. The one you shared here today is so powerful and moving.
Len’s father had and my aunt now has Alzheimer’s. My cousin had to quit his job to care for her full time at home (nursing homes wouldn’t accept her). I can’t imagine anything more frightening or devastating than to lose the ability to recognize family or friends.
I know; that seems like sort of a cruel joke, doesn’t it?
Oh Liz, the last line just breaks my heart.
Yes, like cancer, we all know someone.
It is just so pervasive…
Tanita Says:
This is a sit down and cry poem for me. My grandmother has stroke-induced Alzheimer’s and this is how she is with us now.
I’m actually glad… to see writing about it. I can’t write about it yet.
Re: Tanita Says:
Oh, Tanita. I’m so sorry.
I think you should listen to this amazing podcast:
http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/2009/alzheimers/
It is heartening…
Wow. Powerful, beautiful, painful and true. So very well-done, Liz.
Kudos to you on its inclusion in the collection. And to having made it to the other side of such an awful experience with grace.
Oh, thank you, Kelly. My grandmother was the truly graceful one…
Oh, Liz…why does it still hurt so much today, all these years later. Beautiful. Auntie
I know. For me, too.
She was so vulnerable…
This takes my breath away – again, Liz. And still hurts my heart. The memory of it is visceral. But I’m grateful for you framing this in your poetic voice. xoxo Mom