I learned early on the benefits of having a grandpa who
couldn’t remember. Sure, it’s normal for grandpas not to remember, except mine
hasn’t remembered since 1969.
A sudden
brain aneurysm robbed my grandfather of the ability to convert short-term
memory to long-term. Almost every memory from before 1969 remains crystal
clear—-his 3rd grade teacher’s name, old fraternity songs and the
brand of his mother’s perfume all sit free of dust inside his head, able to be
accessed at any given time. But now, he is consigned to live entirely in the
present—-stranded on a scrap of time, a video camera that’s on but not set to
record. His memory recall varies in length: a phone call with an old friend is
sometimes completely forgotten by the time he hangs up.
He runs entirely on routine to live is life—12:00
lunch, 5:00 dinner, Wheel of Fortune at 7:00. Hand-written signs add to the
décor of my home—“Sam, don’t go outside.” “No snacks past 5:00.” “Don’t use the
guest bath.”
To him, each thought or comment is completely new,
a fresh idea or a quick joke to add to the conversation. To me, it’s almost
always old. Some days leaving the room was all I could do to manage the
repetition. Other days, by the 5th time I had heard the joke in 15
minutes, the laughs were real.
Growing up I wondered why the other kids’ Family
Portraits in art class didn’t have a clumsily drawn old man standing next to
their mom and dad. Didn’t everyone live like this? But time passed. The lines
etching his face grew deeper, but his memory of time passing remained the same.
My understanding of how different my family was grew apparent not only to me,
but to my peers. Sure, my grandpa couldn’t remember what year it was or even
how old I was, but some centripetal force drew him outside to greet me off the school
bus every day. “Why is your dad so old?!” the kids teased. Shame and
embarrassment waited for me each day smiling and waving, grabbing my backpack
as soon as I stepped off and slinging it over one shoulder. Each day I told him
to stop, hoping one time it would just stick. Just once. Looking back, I’m glad
it never did.
When I tell some people about how I grew up, they
look at my grandfather’s life with pity. I envy him. Every minute spent of my
grandpa’s life is spent trying to make that minute count, that minute the
happiest that he will ever remember. And when the days of repetition are gone,
I know his memory will live on in me. I’ve learned a lot from a grandpa who hasn’t
learned a thing since 1969. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Forgive and forget.
Live every moment trying to make the present as good as possible. For a man who
is so forgetful, he sure as hell is unforgettable.
