"A house needs a grandma in it." ~Louisa May Alcott

I know I haven't written in a long time, haven't even felt like it. I've shared almost everything on this blog, though mostly I've kept it light and funny. Today I'll explain a little of why I've been so silent of late.

I guess things started to take a toll on me over the summer, and I didn't feel it was appropriate to be sharing with the world. As you know, I've lived with my grandparents since college. About the time I moved in, my grandmother, Lorraine, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Medicine can only slow down the disease so much, and the last year and a half got pretty tough. We never left Grams alone; she couldn't cook anymore; we had to lock the closet doors because she spent most of her days rummaging and "discovering" things.

And then the days started coming faster and faster when she didn't remember my grandpa. Now, my grandma has always been a feisty lady. If a stranger budged in front of her in line at Burger King, she wouldn't hesitate to put them back in their place. If someone marked their wicker basket at $5 at their garage sale, Grandma's look of contempt would not be hidden. I'm pretty sure I take after her more than anyone else. So when she started to not recognize her own husband, thinking he was a bossy stranger, you'd better believe things turned ugly.

Then she thought her dead brothers would come take her back home. Or she worried her father, dead more than 30 years, would wonder where she was. Every day--every hour--was different from the next. "Well, let's go home," she'd say. So we'd take her for long drives two or three times a night, then pull into the same driveway at the same house we'd left from, and she'd be satisfied that she'd left someplace and was now home.

When she didn't recognize us, she tried escaping the house, and it didn't usually go well. Through this past July, I'd wake up about 25-30 times a night, hyperalert for movement or noises, fearing Grandma might fall down the stairs or make her way outside. It was mentally and physically exhausting.

On Aug. 3, my grandfather, uncle and aunt took my grandma to a nursing home. The hardest part was that she had so many lucid moments. Though, yes, it was more frequent that she was constantly trying to leave, to "go home," there were just as many times when she was lovingly kissing her husband, patting his cheeks, calling him sweetheart, telling him she loved him. I can't even tell you how many times in her first three weeks at the nursing home we almost went back to bring her home again.

It's been hard on our family, especially my grandpa. He celebrated 60 years of marriage with her in June; now he drives 11 miles to visit for a couple of hours with her. Sometimes she begs to come home. More recently, she's blank. The downhill march of Alzheimer's is so much quicker than you'd expect.

Nothing is the same without her. She used to bake all the time; Gramps has quite the sweet tooth. Grandma used to work at the church, donating time and talents with cooking, cleaning, etc. She was a wonderful crafter, sewing draft dodgers, pillows, wall hangings, crazy little snowmen. She used to make these gorgeous baskets with lights and pine cones that she'd highlight with glittered paint. I remember several winters where I accompanied her to craft fairs, where she sold all her goodies. She loved coffee, and she always ate weird food combinations, like a hunk of cheese, a gingersnap cookie, and a handful of peanuts. She hated Judge Judy, or "that old bitch," as Gram called her. She loved "Wheel of Fortune" and "Jeopardy!" and playing Yahtzee. She has knickknacks galore in the house.

Everywhere you look, you see her. Except she's not there. That's the hardest of all.