By Carol Watkins, M.D.
[Winter 2003; Vol. 29, No. 2; Pg 8]
I remember the many afternoons I spent in my grandmother’s large backyard. The photographs are black and white, but my memories are all in color. Painted pebbles became buried treasures in her large sandbox. The sand cities lasted only until the next rainstorm, yet she managed to give each of our creations a magical, eternal story.
Nana was always strong, and never got sick. She nursed me through two months of complicated measles, yet when she finally caught it from me, she was only out for a couple of days.
When, in her 90s, she became forgetful, we couldn’t believe that she was failing. The crisis came when she broke her leg. She became disoriented, and lost her cherished independence. We divided up most of her possessions. It felt a little like stealing--we could not ask permission because she could no longer understand.
My husband suggested a trial of donepezil.(Aricept) Getting Nana to see a doctor was a tough sell, but worth it. She had a dramatic response. She suddenly remembered her apartment and all of her furniture. Where was it and who had taken it? My parents were the recipients of Nana’s wrath about the missing furniture. I was overjoyed to be able to return my share.
The medication has given her a partial reprieve from the rising tide of memory loss. Now when I talk to her, she knows my children and remembers our calls. Nana’s respite from dementia is precious to me because I know it is temporary.
I send her a photograph of her great-grandchildren building a sand castle at the beach. The medication is like that wall of sand. How long can these sand walls keep the tide from rushing in and washing away the castle? I look at the picture and smile. I treasure each day we have won her back from that rising tide.