i hadn’t seen my grandfather in probably 6 years, though i couldn’t actually pinpoint it. the last time i saw him was likely a christmas celebration, where i probably gave him a pair of warm slippers, or a thick flannel shirt – the kind of comforts that used to matter to him after his wife of 50 years had died, when the cold went a bit deeper, began to get through to his bones.

as i was growing up, my grandfather was never a very demonstrative man. he had been raised in a household of famous british reserve and stiff upper lips, and while we knew he loved us, it was my warm, bosomy grandmother who was full of perfumed soft hugs and kisses for the grandkids. my grandparents had moved from massachusetts to west virginia, travelled often, and were the independent sort of retirees who toured around the country in their custom rv, so we didn’t see them more than once or twice a year.

then my grandmother died. and suddenly, the importance of family was set out in stark relief for my grandfather. old grudges with his sons were forgiven. he started calling to talk, and saying “i love you” a lot. he began coming up for holidays and birthdays, alternating visits between his three children. grandpa became a fixture in our lives the way he never had been when we were children, with his endless war stories, his everpresent flask of whisky, his long distance van rides up and down the coast, driving 14 hours at a stretch well into his 80s.

no one was quite sure when the alzheimer’s first made itself known to my grandfather, because he hid it from the rest of us for a very long time. my grandfather spent his life as a private pilot and chemical engineer, a man of formulas and numbers – a man as proud of his intellect and independence as he was of his full head of thick dark hair. a smart man, who was, it turns out, extremely adept at covering for his loss of memory. dates, places, and names began to elude him, but it was only when he stopped paying his bills and began dissembling electrical fixtures looking for spy cameras, that it became apparent something was really wrong. that was four years ago.

since then, there has been a long, drawn out battle to get him into a nursing home. a battle which culminated in his being found by the police on the manicured grounds of the museum of fine art, late at night, scared and disoriented. a battle where he fought to retain his dignity and independence, and his family fought to have him declared incompetent. a battle for the remaining threads of his pride at the expense of his health and safety. a battle fought tooth and nail. a battle my grandfather could not win.

i spent the day with him today. we picked him up from his home – a “good” nursing home, but depressing and institutional and a place where people go to die all the same. we drove to a diner, had club sandwiches and chocolate milk for lunch. my grandfather was fairly lucid, and we talked about his routines, his roommate, his newfound interest in singing with the music group. as we drove through the city he once knew so well, he spoke of the houses he grew up in, the routes he used to drive to and from work, his anger at no longer having a car of his own. we went to the marina and had ice cream on the boardwalk, sitting in the sun, overlooking the boats, and my grandfather reminisced about what it used to look like when that area was only swampland and a small landing strip. as he sat eating his strawberry ice cream, wearing his heavy vest on a warm late summer day, his papery skin crinkling at the folds of his face, his eyes milky and damp, he spoke of wanting to buy a boat and sail the world. i asked him sail over and visit me in england.

i understand his desire to escape.

my grandfather is 90. i know, dropping him back at the nursing home, hugging his frail bones gently and kissing his dry cheek, that i may have said goodbye for the last time. or maybe i already did, when i last saw him 6 years ago – i just didn’t know it at the time.

i don’t know how you reconcile that within yourself. if anyone ever does.

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