Memory is a funny thing. What we choose to remember, what we choose to forget. And do we really choose? Is it conscious? Maybe in some cases, but mostly I think it’s our subconscious choosing for us.
Take My Patty is based on my relationship with my grandma Marie and the early stages of her Alzheimer’s.
I recently met with my publisher, Michael, and illustrator, Geoffry Smally, for a page-by-page planning session. It was the first time I had spoken with Geoffry, and being able to discuss my book—the word choices, the setting, the characters—gave me so much energy. Our one-hour meeting flew by. We shared the same ideas on page turns and were open to cutting a few sentences where the art could show rather than tell.
The best part of the meeting was talking about my grandma’s character. I was filled with even more fond memories of her. She gave me a quiet, calm, peaceful love.
For one of the scenes, Geoffry asked, “What kinds of things did you and your grandma do on your walks? What’d you talk about?”
The funny thing is, I don’t remember what we talked about. I just know I loved being with her. I remember the sidewalk in her neighborhood, lined with big old trees, and picking up those little helicopter leaves. There were flowers. Grandma liked flowers, especially peonies.
Later, Michael pointed out a poignant line in the story (his words). When Grandma moves into the assisted living facility, she goes from having her own home—a mid-century ranch in Wauwatosa—to a room with a skinny bed and bathroom.
“It’s enough for me,” she says.
That line, while short and simple, was the essence of Grandma Marie. “No muss, no fuss,” she’d say. In other words, it’s enough.
Alzheimer’s presents in so many different ways. Some people get aggressive, some seem content, and others lose words. Some yell. Others cry.
For Marie, she seemed grateful and content. She wanted whoever was in her presence to feel comfortable. She didn’t ask for anything. Grandma loved being included for meals and assured her hosts by saying, “This is wonderful!” She smiled. She said, “Thank you.” Her bright blue eyes sparkled. Content.
My memories with her are simple. We played cards and ate Corn Flakes on her TV trays while watching The Golden Girls. We took walks. Even as her disease progressed, I could feel her warmth. Anyone in her presence felt it. Simply being with her made me feel her kindness and love.
That’s what I remember most.
It’s enough for me.