One Minute More
Seth Crites
All I want is one more year, month, week, day, hour, or even just a damn minute with Gramps. I know that no matter the time I could be given, it wouldn’t be enough. That’s just the way it goes, I guess. My grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease at eighty years old. In his prime he was a successful businessman who had climbed the career ladder at a young age and waited to marry until he was in his late thirties. I grew up around him, seeing him two to four times every year, learning the skills and stories that he had learned and lived in his lifetime. He taught me how to ski, helped me learn how to ride a bike, told me the stories of himself and his friends in their prime, and took me to the mountains of Colorado and beaches of California. He was possibly my favorite person in the entire world, and I am happy with the life that I lived with him. He never showed any signs of slowing down, literally skiing in the winter and hiking or riding his bike in the summer until he was eighty-two years old. It wasn’t much of a surprise for us when we heard that he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, but he didn’t want to accept it. He denied that he had it and acted like it didn’t affect him in any way. My mother and her sister tried to learn about the disease and find ways to stave it off. It was a little something here and there and it probably did help him at least feel like he was all still there. We continued living and having fun with him, inviting him to all our family get-togethers like Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, spring break, and the fourth of July. We always had fun and we did our best to keep the disease out of our thoughts although we could all see the inevitable process that was taking place. Gramps was slowly leaving us. We started to see it in the way that he did his everyday tasks around the house. Sometimes he would stop in the middle of a washing the dishes and ask a question about an unrelated topic before going back to the bowl he was working on. Other times he would be sweeping the kitchen and stop to ask where the broom was. We would of course laugh and tell him he had it in his hand still (which he did) and remind him that eighty-two isn’t quite forgetting age and he still had a few years before he was allowed to forget anything. We laughed together as he told us he was just looking for the ‘better’ broom before continuing with his sweeping. As time went on, we had to start reminding him that the towel in his hand was for drying the bowl in his other hand, and that you need a broom with your dustpan when you sweep because the dustpan doesn’t sweep by itself very well. Then we were doing the dishes and sweeping on our own. The process of losing him was not very long. After those first two years, we knew he was going to be leaving soon. We were glad for the time that we had with him, and we were thankful for his spirit and want to still be involved in all of our lives. That last year was solemn. He never truly forgot most of our names, but he did forget the youngest grandchildren. We had to remind him of who we are, and he did his best to pit the pieces together so that he could be friendly towards us even if he felt that many of us were strangers. Thanksgiving was the last get together we had with him. He wasn’t able to see us for Christmas, or New Years, Fourth of July, or any other family times. When there was about six months left, it was necessary for him to be in a Care Home. We visited, celebrated his birthday, and tried to keep from stressing him too much. We soon heard news that he had to be put on Hospice, as he was no longer able to care for himself anymore. We flew in to say our goodbyes. I spent an hour crying in that room. His skin was pale, as if he didn’t have any blood left. His arms and legs were frail and immobile. His head, although still full with a grey crown of hair, was sunken. His body was small. Spent. He couldn’t talk, but I’m pretty sure he knew I was there. He would pause between his labored breaths when I talked to him, as if he wanted me to know he was listening. I wasn’t done crying when we had to leave, but I did my best to compose myself as we walked out the doors of the care center. That was the last time I saw him. I only wish for one minute more.
Seth Crites is a three-year student at NMMI. After graduation he plans on attending Texas A&M University in College Station to obtain an engineering degree in a field that is yet to be chosen.