The Mask of Alzheimer’s
My grandfather was like a masked man. I have no idea when he took off his disguise, but it was most certainly not around me. His façade toward me kept me from truly knowing him. He was a quiet, reserved man who I always nodded my head to, even when I didn’t understand what he was saying. His thick accent would rumble deep in his throat –spoken like an elongated smoker’s cough.
“Pass di mote gyal.” His knobby hands would have grasped the remote control and flipped on Rush Hour for the 7th time that week. That was my grandfather; one command then nothing. He went into the dewy ground like I remembered him, tight lipped with his hands folded on his stomach, the only thing missing was Rush Hour playing in the background. But this is not what other people had to say about him. My grandfather was shell of his former self. Like an empty peanut, my grandfather’s whole being was missing; my mom’s father was different. To her he was a storyteller, weaving intricate and foreign places together like the ideas were in his hands and setting himself as the main character in each. He told so many elaborate tales that she laughed when she questioned their credibility. The story I never doubted was his journey to America and how passionate drive became a heretic trait in my family. …show more content…
The idealist attitude that he had led to not only his success, but my mom’s success as well and in turn became like a gift in my family. A gift of an optimistic, non-defeatist attitude that seemed to resonate with everyone after him. How could you look at a house that dwarfs its surrounding and not think about the hands and mind that allowed its structure? His road to a better life showed me that he thought less about himself and more about impacting the people he loved. He could have given up, abandoned my mom, or been like the many people surrounding my grandparents’ big white house: stagnant. But he did what he felt was
My grandfather was like a masked man. I have no idea when he took off his disguise, but it was most certainly not around me. His façade toward me kept me from truly knowing him. He was a quiet, reserved man who I always nodded my head to, even when I didn’t understand what he was saying. His thick accent would rumble deep in his throat –spoken like an elongated smoker’s cough.
“Pass di mote gyal.” His knobby hands would have grasped the remote control and flipped on Rush Hour for the 7th time that week. That was my grandfather; one command then nothing. He went into the dewy ground like I remembered him, tight lipped with his hands folded on his stomach, the only thing missing was Rush Hour playing in the background. But this is not what other people had to say about him. My grandfather was shell of his former self. Like an empty peanut, my grandfather’s whole being was missing; my mom’s father was different. To her he was a storyteller, weaving intricate and foreign places together like the ideas were in his hands and setting himself as the main character in each. He told so many elaborate tales that she laughed when she questioned their credibility. The story I never doubted was his journey to America and how passionate drive became a heretic trait in my family. …show more content…
The idealist attitude that he had led to not only his success, but my mom’s success as well and in turn became like a gift in my family. A gift of an optimistic, non-defeatist attitude that seemed to resonate with everyone after him. How could you look at a house that dwarfs its surrounding and not think about the hands and mind that allowed its structure? His road to a better life showed me that he thought less about himself and more about impacting the people he loved. He could have given up, abandoned my mom, or been like the many people surrounding my grandparents’ big white house: stagnant. But he did what he felt was