Getting Old

This past Saturday I had my 10-year high school reunion which made me feel a bit old. The reunion itself was fun, although a bit silly since I was one of 8 people out of 32 to show up, and only two of the other 7 were people I haven't seen in the last 10 years. The actual reunion aside, though, any landmark passage of time like that makes me think about what I've accomplished and what I still want to do.

On Sunday, I had a discussion with my father-in-law about their plans for things after they die.

Then on Monday, I visited my grandfather in his nursing home. He has fairly advanced dimensia which meant that I had to introduce myself to him 3 times during our 30 minute visit. The upside, I suppose, is that he also wasn't quite cognizant enough to notice that I was crying almost the entire time I was there.

When I first sat down, he studied my face and asked if I was a relative of his. When I told him who I was he said, "Oh Anna! She was my girl from the time she could say so. 'Pompas-dirl' she used to say... I wonder how she's doing... I haven't heard how she's doing in school..." It lets me know that I'm somewhere there in his memories, and I'm sure I could've coaxed the story of the time he taught me to make lemon meringue pie out of him, but it still stings to be unrecognized. To be fair, I barely recognized him myself... if it wasn't for the blurry tattoo on his arm, a relic of his Marine days, I might not have believed it was him. I also haven't seen him in about 2 years, something that is excusable on some level since I do live 4 hours away and I'm rarely going through his new town during daylight hours, but it is also something that makes me feel indescribably guilty and ashamed. I've been reluctant to visit him because he is simply not the grandpa I remember. While his self-depricating, sarcastic, smart-ass wit still comes through now and then, giving tiny glimpses of his personality, most of the time he remains trapped in a prison of his own mind.

My grandpa has always, and will always, hold a very special place in my heart which is what makes it so hard to see his steady decline. It is so hard to sit right next to my grandpa and miss him at the same time. I want to sit in his pick up with him, listen to the radio and eat root-beer-barrel candies, a stash of which was always kept in the ash tray. I want to help him feed the cows and be teased for being afraid of the crazy bull. I want to slide into the corner bench in the kitchen and have him make us a cup of tea. But of course, I can't. The truck, the farm, and the house have all been sold and I'm no more that little girl than he is that grandpa.

Change is good and I agree with the Anne Taintor sentiment, "Honey, you couldn't pay me to be 20 again," but sometimes it all hits me at once how fast time goes by and life just seems too short...