Thanksgiving

My grandmother doesn't recognize me anymore.

This may seem like a depressing thing to discover on an otherwise cheerful Thanksgiving weekend, but I've been expecting it for a while. My grandmother's memory has been getting hazier and hazier over the past few years, to the point that now she's literally living her life one moment at a time. She functions and communicates within each moment surprisingly well, but is unable to connect the present with something that happened even 5 minutes ago.

My aunt, uncle, and myself visited Nan this past weekend at her retirement home in the small community of Harbour Main. As we walked into a busy sitting room we knew exactly where to find her. She was sitting in the back corner of the room watching people come and go.

The three of us sat around her and started to talk. My Nan was always a social butterfly, and she relished the chance to have a chat. And chat she did.

She told us she put up all the Halloween decorations in the windows. (She didn't.)

She said she was out to mass in the morning after the priest had to come and get her. (She wasn't.)

She pointed at one of the old ladies in the home, called her "Aunt Deet", and said she was looking quite well. Aunt Deet was a relative who died before I was even born.

But boy, through it all she hasn't lost her ability to carry on a conversation.

My aunt reached over and touched her hand to quiet her down for an instant, and said "Alright Mother, I'm going to put this bag of sweaters in your room because it's getting colder out now and you're going to need them."

"Dear, did you bring my t-shirt too?" my Nan asked. "The last time you were over I think you took my t-shirt."

We all looked around - no one knew about this mysterious t-shirt.

My aunt left the room and it was just me, my uncle, and my Nan. Before we could start the conversation up again, a big, stocky gentleman walked into the room and Nan instantly cried out: "My, he's after getting to be some size, isn't he?!?"

Me and my uncle looked at each and grinned awkwardly, wishing the back wall of the room would consume us somehow. Luckily, the stocky gentleman was good-natured (as most Newfoundlanders are) and as he sat down he looked over at my grandmother and called out with a smile: "So how are you today, my love?"

My Nan responded, "I'm the best kind, and thanks for asking!" Her social skills are still in tip-top shape, thankfully.

My aunt returned and conversation carried on a little more until Nan was prompted to say my name. My aunt asked ever so gently, "Mother, who is this young man? What's his name?"

My Nan looked at me for a few seconds, hesitated for another few seconds, and I just had to say something. "Well, my hair is a bit different, that's probably why you don't recognize me!" With that my Nan reached out her hand and mussed up my hair a little bit.

We let the conversation drift off in other directions after that, and eventually it was time for dinner. My Nan loves dinner time, so this immediately got her attention. Before I left, though, I just had to say one last thing.

"Remember Nan, you used to call me 'Mark G'. That's what you always called me, when I was little."

Her face lit up, and the words rolled off her tongue: "Mark G". She said it with a big smile.

And then it was off to dinner for her, and back to the world for me. It was a strange day, yet I was feeling thankful. A part of me is always going to be there in her memory, even if it's always an image of a shy, brown-haired, little boy. She may never again be able to comprehend that I am now a 25-year-old man.

But me and my grandmother made a connection there, in that fleeting moment, and for that I am giving thanks.