My grandma was finally placed into a nursing home about a week ago, and most definitely did not pass her (mental) evaluation. The first thing she said to the woman was "I used to work here you know. In this very room. I remember the cracks in the wall. And I used to work with you!"
She was a nurse 50 years ago.
So yeah, she is bat-shit crazy and I know that sounds totally insensitive, but it's the truth. It's so scary, on so many levels, and I can't even imagine what she is going through. I never want to go through it. That's why I smoke. I don't want to live that long.
OK, I'm mostly saying that tongue-in-cheek, but seriously. Someone shoot me if I start losing my mind and I live to 93 years old.
I went with my mom the other day to visit her, and she was completely obstinate and acting like a child. She told my mom that she doesn't love her, asked me to take my mom back home, said she couldn't believe her only daughter was doing this to her and she disowns her. Needless to say, it was a bad day for my grandma, and my mom left in tears.
My mother has taken care of her for a long time now, and has done more than most would even consider. She's worn herself into the ground trying to be a nurse for her, and just couldn't do it anymore. She put my grandma into the home for her own safety. The doctors all said she needs 24 hour care.
I had a hard time hugging my grandma and telling her I loved her when I left.
It's the disease talking, I know. But still hard to deal with.
In the midst of all this, the nurse came in to tell us they were going to paint her room. My mom said "Oh, that will look a lot nicer, right mom?"
My grandma responds "Why the hell should I care?"
The nurse chuckled and walked out.
In her next breath, my grandma asked me if I dyed my hair. I had, in fact, dyed it darker the day before. It blows my mind that she doesn't remember the thought she had 30 seconds ago, but can notice the slight difference in my hair color.
I told her it had been my birthday a few days before, trying to change the subject. I asked if she remembered how old I was. She said I was 19.
Oh grandma, I wish.
Anyway, this has been a huge stress on our family and I don't understand why people are made to live when they really want the exact opposite.
I don't want to remember her this way. I want to remember her making me macaroni and cheese and eating it straight from the pan. I want to remember all her glass knick-knacks around the house, and how she'd let me play with them. I want to remember sitting in the hammock with her and laughing like mad when it flipped us over onto the ground. I want to remember her telling me the stories of how she grew up in Chicago, and all the crazy antics her and her sisters would get into. Her stories always reminded me of episodes of I Love Lucy.

Life is so weird, you know?