By Rick Kaempfer
My middle son Johnny had just left for school, when I noticed the expression on his little brother Sean’s face. My four-year-old pre-schooler was sitting on the couch, gazing out the window at the sight of his nine year old brother disappearing from view. Sean’s hands were cupping his sad little cheeks.
“He’ll be back this afternoon,” I said.
“I know,” he answered.
I wasn’t used to seeing Sean sad. I knew I had to do something to snap him out of it.
“Want to go on a field trip?” I asked. “Just the two of us?”
He eyed me suspiciously. “Where?”
“Anywhere you want,” I offered.
“Really? Anywhere?”
“Sure.”
“OK,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “Let’s go visit Uri-Oma.”
Uri-Oma is my grandmother, and Sean’s great-grandmother (“Uri-Oma” is German for “Great Grandmother”). She is 93 years old, has dementia and Alzheimer’s, doesn’t speak a word of English, and thinks she is living in the old country. The last five or six times I visited her in the nursing home, she had no idea who I was. I was depressed every time I left.
I figured I didn’t hear Sean correctly. I knew my mom dragged Sean along to the nursing home occasionally, but I didn’t know he liked it.
“You want to go to the nursing home?”
“Yes!” he said. He was totally excited about the possibility.
I hadn’t been to visit my grandmother in a few weeks, so I figured what the heck. I packed Sean in the car and drove over there. When we walked in the front door, the security guard smiled at my little boy.
“How many stickers do you want today?” he asked.
“Just two. One for me and one for Dad.”
Sean ran ahead as I signed the visitor’s log.
“C’mon Dad.”
I hurried to catch up to him. He ran to the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor like he owned the place. The elevator door opened on my grandmother’s floor and he ran ahead again.
“C’mon Dad.”
When we got to the dementia wing and Sean opened the door, it was like Norm arriving at Cheers bar. The nurses all said it at the same time.
“Sean!”
He waved at them happily, and then waved at the other residents there, nearly all of whom looked like they were receiving a puppy on Christmas morning.
When he found my grandmother, she was the most excited person on the floor. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Even before the Alzheimer’s kicked in, my grandmother was not exactly famous for her cheerful disposition. She was a tough old German woman, worn down by a lifetime of hardship. The only thing “warm and fuzzy” about her was her sweater.
And yet, there she was, leaning against a walker, smiling broadly at Sean.
“Look Uri-Oma,” he said. He stomped his feet on the ground, and his shoes lit up.
“Oooooh. Lichtie,” she said. That’s a cutesy German way of saying “light.” It would be like saying “Oh look—a little lightee.” I couldn’t believe my eyes and ears--my grandmother was talking baby-talk to my son.
“Do you know what she said?” I asked Sean.
He nodded. “She loves the shoes.”
Close enough. “Hi, Oma,” I said.
“Wer bischt du?” she asked me in her German dialect. It means “Who are you?”
I was just about to explain who I was, when Sean interrupted. “Look Uri-Oma,” he said. He pulled a little car out of his pocket.
“Oooooh,” she said.
“C’mon, Uri-Oma, let’s play,” he said, and ran ahead to a table. She shuffled after him with her walker about as fast as I’ve seen her move in five years.
“This should be good,” I thought to myself.
My grandmother sat at the table across from Sean and for the next fifteen minutes or so, they pushed the little car back and forth. Sean was talking to her the whole time, explaining the name of the car, telling her how fast it could go, and why it was so special to him. She was nodding and smiling the whole time. After the car game, Sean started doing somersaults on the floor in front of her. She clapped after each one.
For thirty minutes or so, I got a glimpse of what kind of a grandmother she might have been if her life hadn’t had been so hard, and difficult, and cruel. Those difficult years have melted away with her disease. I could tell with every smile.
And this time when we left the nursing home, for the first time ever, I wasn’t depressed.
A sad footnote: I wrote this column a few weeks ago. Last Wednesday my grandmother had a bad fall at the nursing home probably caused by a massive stroke. The doctors thought she wouldn't make it through the weekend, but as I write this now, she is still clinging to life.
