How Alzheimers changed my relationship with my grandma

It’s about appreciating the time we have together now

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When I was eight years old, my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.

Back then, I didn’t understand what this meant, nor how far-reaching the implications would be.

In the seven years since, Mum-Mum, as we call her, is now 81 and has changed into a very different version of herself.

I can still identify glimpses of the person she once was, but our relationship has changed.

The knowledge that my grandma will continue to deteriorate has helped me gain a new appreciation for our time together and this current version of her.

“She could still look at me and see her granddaughter, and know she was seeing someone she loved.”

Growing up with my grandma

As a young kid, I knew my Grandma, whose name is Mary, to be energetic and endlessly empathetic.

She took care of my sisters and I when my mom was working. 

We spent many days walking the beach, painting and going to playgrounds. 

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She would make us pancakes or cinnamon toast, read stories and craft with us, and bathe us at the end of the day.

There are countless times I watched her smiling at strangers, showing kindness to everyone we met, especially children, and going out of her way to lighten the burdens of others.

Getting used to the changes

My grandma started showing signs of cognitive decline, such as losing her car keys and sunglasses, and struggling to remember things that had happened earlier that day.

My family initially chalked it up to normal age-related memory loss.

It soon became clear that my grandma’s condition was worsening too much and too quickly for this to be the case.

No one in my family, including myself, wanted to believe there was something wrong with her.

Coming to terms with her diagnosis

It was painful to learn that she had Alzheimer’s disease, especially because we knew the disease would only progress.

At first, I really struggled to accept this.

I love my grandma, and I wanted her to be there — mentally and physically — for all of the important life events in my future.

But I knew that this was no longer realistic, and I realized that I now had to be there for her.

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Over time, she stopped recognizing friends, and then family members.

She began to experience episodes of extreme fear, irritability, and confusion.

Sometimes, she would run away into downtown Vancouver, wearing her slippers and no coat, in winter.

This was one of the most stressful periods of her illness: my family and I were often left to chase her through the city, sometimes at night, tracking her using an iTag on her belt-loop.

I felt horrible imagining my Grandma walking through the city, cold, confused and frightened. 

Holding onto the present when the future is so uncertain

It became harder to see the person she once was. 

But I still saw glimpses of her when she laughed with me and held my hand. When she appreciated the beauty of a sunset and the warm feeling of being cleanly washed. When she looked at me and knew she was seeing someone she loved.

As my grandma’s condition worsened, I still loved her even when she lost the ability to reciprocate the sentiment verbally.

One of the hardest parts of having a loved one with Alzheimer’s is the knowledge that their disease is incurable and progressive.

For me, this means coming to terms with the fact that my grandma is not going to get better.  

I know that in several years, months, or even weeks, I will be left wishing for the present version of my grandma back.

Although this knowledge used to make me feel despair about the future, I’ve found that my perspective on her illness has shifted: understanding that my time with her is limited actually helps me to stay grounded in the present.

Nowadays, my grandma can’t engage verbally with me, but we still connect in other ways.

When I visit her, we sit together holding hands and watch the boats passing by her window, like we used to do when I was younger. 

In these moments, I feel grateful I still get to share experiences with her, despite her disease.

When she smiles, or hums a tune, I can appreciate her for who she is, not just who she was.

I still enjoy our time together, and I’m sure that she does too.

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TOP IMAGE CREDIT: Submitted by Evon Murphy, graphic design by Philip Street/CBC