A letter to my granddad on World Alzheimer’s Day

Tomorrow is World Alzheimer’s Day. About 70,000 New Zealanders are living with dementia. My granddad (pictured right) was one of them until July 22, 2014. This is a letter with all the things I never got to say, and all the things I wish I could say now.

Iwasn’t at your funeral; you weren’t at my wedding. So I guess we’re even. Work had finished for the day. I was standing on a crowded Manhattan street about to head down to the subway and make the 45-minute journey home to Brooklyn.

It was 5pm in America on Tuesday, July 22, 2014, when the text hit my phone – ‘‘Grandpop has passed’’.

Mum was too upset to call.

I knew it was coming, but it didn’t stop the tears from flowing.

As New Yorkers carried on with their busy lives around me, I buried my face into the armpit of my now-husband, Will – you’ll never forget that hair you always said.

I said goodbye to you before heading overseas. I came to the rest home.

We spoke about New York. You said you’d been there, as well as Germany.

But you hadn’t. That was the dementia talking. Saying a pre-emptive goodbye didn’t make the news any easier.

Never have those 14,000 kilometres from home felt so far.

I miss your cheeky grin, your Irish accent, which no one could understand, and the sound of loose change jingling in your pocket making it impossible for you to ever sneak up on anyone.

You were always so happy, even towards the end when confusion took over most of the time.

We stopped correcting you in the end if you got things wrong or muddled.

The pain in your face was too much to bear when you realised that actually your beloved Millie hadn’t been around for 20-plus years.

Why make you even more confused and live through it all again? So we just went along with whatever story you told.

You were always so generous with your winnings from the greyhounds, or flea taxis as you called them, slipping me money here and there.

I know you said not to, but I told mum every time you slid me a $20 note when she wasn’t looking. I hope you’ll forgive me.

Just like I forgive you for those times you told me I’d ‘really beefed up’, ‘packed on the pounds’, or some other way of telling me I really needed to lay off the pies.

You were from a generation where that was an OK thing to say to a teenage girl and I think the way mum dealt to you was probably punishment enough.

I wish I’d danced with you more; you were a great dancer and loved to show your moves off wherever you had the chance.

You lived with us for quite a while when I was growing up and when my friends and I would be getting all dressed up to go out your face would light up – ‘Are you going dancing?’

You’d want to have a dance with us or show us some moves but sadly I was from a generation where that wasn’t cool, and I got embarrassed. I’m sorry.

Sadly, in 2007, it was more drunken crumping than the civilised dances you were used to.

‘Pick them up, let them fall themselves’ was your motto. You’d say it every time we headed off for the night.

It wasn’t until after you passed that I found out you meant your feet, not your dance partner.

Which means I should probably issue an apology to anyone in the Stratford to New Plymouth area circa 2006 to 2008 who I just picked up at a party on your authority and then let them fall and fend for themselves.

I think about you often. We all do.

Your silly sayings, the way you’d sit at the table and roll your tobacco every morning before quitting cold turkey, or when the dementia started and you’d leave your mobility scooter somewhere random in town or confuse balsamic vinegar for your whiskey.

We were never sure how you could stomach that one.

Growing up I always dreaded death. I would lay in bed at night and think of the nothingness it represented and get myself into a panic.

I’d lie down and cry thinking mum and dad would one day die.

I guess that was a tell-tale sign I was always going to be an anxious person.

It got so bad they told me we would build a rocket to go and live on the moon because there was special air up there which meant you could live forever.

Every logistical question I raised, mum had an answer. She even had my teachers at school in on it.

I wish I’d danced with you more; you were a great dancer and loved to show your moves off wherever you had the chance.

Looking back on it now I’m not sure if this was the best parenting, but, hey, you do what you’ve got to do when you’ve got a hysterical five-year-old in front of you.

I would go around asking everyone if they wanted to help build our rocket.

Our neighbour said he was busy that day but he could help on the weekend.

You were the first person close to me to die. I’d gone 23 whole years without having to experience it.

I wish that rocket theory really existed. I wish I was at your funeral.

I wish you were at my wedding.

I’m sure we both do.