by Lauren Krueger
She looked at me the way one regards a stranger, with a sort of guarded politeness. Gone was the warmth of her gaze and that special sparkling smile she used to save just for me. Her once carefree expression, almost always uplifting, turned to one of exhaustion. Her tired eyes drooped in her pallid face as mine blinked back frantic tears. Needing to distract myself from what I knew was happening, I looked around desperately. My eyes scanned and took in the other residents in the memory care unit—the beige mush on their plates and the walls painted a happy green meant to invoke feelings of hope.
I wanted to paint them black.
Constance Mae shone as a constant ray of light in my life. While she took pride in many names and titles—Grandma, Mom, wife, sister—Nonny was my favorite and what I lovingly called her the 18 years I had the pleasure of knowing her. Stemmed from my cousin’s inability to say “Connie,” the nickname stuck like glue. An accomplished and published poet, talented actress, silly and selfless woman, she was the most wonderful person I have ever known. Never before had I witnessed someone bestow complete kindness to both her own kin and those with no affiliation. Never before had I seen someone with the ability to make light of themselves and their mistakes, moving on as quickly as she’d erred.
Other than her personality, there was nothing sweeter than the sound of her laugh, ringing like a church bell as her eyes crinkled with pure joy. God certainly blessed her with a talent for writing, something she happily shared with those she loved. Holidays like Valentine’s Day and Halloween, in addition to my birthday, were occasions I always looked forward to because I knew I would receive a card from my sweet grandma. Always carefully hand-crafted and usually containing a poem, each card brought a smile to my face from the time I retrieved it from the mailbox through the ever-present ‘Love always, Nonny’ signed in cursive at the bottom.
Wanting to be just like her, I tried my hand at writing and poetry starting when I was in elementary school. For most of my life Nonny was in Wisconsin while I was in Minnesota, so I wrote for fun and to feel closer to her—something I still do to this day. She always encouraged and supported my writing and acting, I think partly because she was proud of me and partly because I was carrying on her legacy, something that strengthened our special bond even further.
In eighth grade I wrote a poem about my late grandpa that I emailed to her because I simply couldn’t wait to show her in person, not entirely sure when I would see her next. The inbox dinged with a notification from one of my role models, my teenage mix of excitement and nervousness all too visible. When she loved it and praised me for it, I beamed like the sunshine her words gifted me.
Eventually, we started seeing the irreversible effects of the steep slope that is Alzheimer’s as her sun acquiesced to overcast skies. At first, it was occasionally forgetting her purse in the church sanctuary after service—something I’ve done myself. Then, it was hiding her purse in the oven for fear the employees at her assisted living residence were stealing from her. Forgetting a story she recently told and relaying it again gave way to forgetting more significant things in her short-term memory.
Eventually, one of those things was me.
I always dreaded visiting her at the various hospitals and care facilities. Feeling incredibly guilty that this made me a terrible granddaughter, I couldn’t help the dark depressed cloud that poured sadness down on me every time we walked through those doors. The loneliness and pity was palpable in those places, practically contagious. My family was always upbeat and positive when we saw her, but all I felt was alone, as I stood watching my Nonny slip away from me.
Along with my heart, my voice broke as I read the words aloud. Tears trickled down my face as I read one of her poems at her funeral. I lost more tears than I ever thought possible that day and gave hugs to those I had never known before. Amid the grief we shared stories of her, the countless happy memories, for we knew her lively soul wouldn’t want us to be sad.
On those dark sleepless nights following her passing, I allowed my mind to wander to lighter times.
“Lauren,” she whispered, slightly shaking my shoulder to wake me up. Around 5 a.m.— barely early to a young child—we carefully maneuvered down the many wooden steps to the dock, going to feed canned corn to the fish in the hazy darkness that can only be claimed by summer mornings. We would giggle and talk about everything and nothing as the sun rose, dangling our feet in the cool water and then reluctantly making our way back inside as the others slowly woke.
A smile on my face, my eyes open slowly to find the sun peeking through my own bedroom blinds, no longer at her house on the lake, disappointment and reality knocking the breath out of me. I squeeze my eyes shut, hard, willing that dream of a memory to come back. Except for the emptiness, all I feel is dampness on my cheeks.
Almost two years since the hardest day of my life, what helps me breathe easier is her presence, feeling her with me.
I feel her soft embrace when I write and create.
I feel her reassuring squeeze on my shoulder when I need it the most.
If I listen closely enough, I can almost hear her saying: “Sweet girl, it’s going to be OK.”