Dear Grandma,

Did some part of your brain know what was really going on before you died? Like was there this tiny part that stayed rational and knew who everyone was, but it's just that the rest of your brain rotted and grew bloated until it covered up the tiny rational part?

I tried to picture this tiny part--this glimmer of recognition inside you--whenever I'd come to the home to visit. I'd look deep into your ice blue vacant gaze, and strain to see you in there--small, frustrated, banging on the glass that separated you from yourself.

The alzheimer's ward was scary and I worried about the real you inside being upset about
getting stuck in there. A former priest wandered to the locked hall door every day and shock it violently, shouting, "Let me out!" desperately to anyone who walked by. They had to hold him back whenever mom and I visited you, so we could get through the door without him running out. Even though you would just sit there and not seem to notice the priest and all the chaos surrounding him, I pictured the real you, the tiny one, somewhere deep in your brain, trying to convey your annoyance despite the thick layers of this bloated, rotting you that overshadowed everything.

They washed your body for you, dressed you and wiped your ass when you went to the bathroom. That must have been really demeaning to the real you, as you watched with horror, unable to do anything to stop it, to tell them you could do it yourself.

This you that overshadowed--it didn't seem to mind anything at all. It was a very pleasant you. It smiled and was quite polite and said "thank you." That's how it got in there so thick. No one noticed it taking over because it mimicked all the kind parts of you so well.
By the time we knew it was there, you had shrunk to the tiny little part I hope still exists. And all the rest of you was commanded by "it," this thing that took over and mimicked you. But looking at this thing, talking to it, we all knew it wasn't you anymore. You didn't even know my name. You called me "dear" to cover your tracks.
I just want to know that somewhere inside, you were still looking at me, knowing me, watching me grow up into the woman I am now. I want to know that though you were trapped under all that rotten, bloated nothing that overtook you, you still had a window to look out of, where you could see the ridiculousness going on, even if you couldn't respond to in in ways we could see.
I like the idea of that better--of you being inside, wishing you could tell me you loved me, call me by my name, fight out against being spoon fed and bathed by nurses. But instead, being only able to watch from that window.

As awful a fate as that sounds, I think you being in there sounds better than the alternative...
you being gone.

Love,
L