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Grandma's Memory

My sister threw a question while she was getting ready to go to bed one night. "What should we tell grandma?" I re-asked her a question, not knowing what she exactly meant by hers. "Tell her what?" "She no longer recognizes anyone, only except Go-mo." My sister, two years younger than me, and I had no idea how to initiate conversations with our grandma whose memories are being lost. Neither of us hasn't had met anyone whose memories are fading away, in person, in our lives. To me, the year of 2016 has only been the 28th of all.

'How does it feel to lose memories that were once there?' At the end of our conversation, I questioned myself. At the very moment that I just started reading <South of the Border, West of the Sun> by Haruki Murakami. That night was the first time for me to read his writing in English. Feeling like I lost all the energy in my body that I became unable to turn a single page of the book, I said, "This is too saddening." My sister smoothly changed the direction of what we were conversing about to a new song she found ear-catching earlier that day.

Grandma is in Korea. In 2002, my sister and I came first and started going to secondary school in Vancouver, Canada. My parents, a younger brother and Grandma arrived here in 2003. My parents had always been busy with the determination that they had to settle in the new land, not particularly unique compared to other immigrant families. Grandma stayed here with us for few months, mostly taking care of my little brother who then was in kindergarten and us.

Her days in Vancouver looked identical to one another. After having breakfast, mom and dad started making their way out to their sushi restaurant, my sister, brother, Grandma and I got going to school. My high school and the youngest’s elementary school were nearby. When Grandma and my brother were getting farther away from us to go to his school, my sister and I also hurried our steps toward ours. I have never imagined nor witnessed her way back home after dropping off my brother. She must’ve made sure that my brother went to his class safely, turned around and headed back home. I now wonder what it would’ve looked like to walk the same road, which she walked together with three of us before, alone.

Before his classes were finished, Grandma took herself there, waiting for him. In Vancouver, parents, grandparents, brothers or sisters must pick up their younger family members who are under 13. In Korea, in which I grew up and went to elementary school, it wasn’t a necessity. I walked 20 minutes alone to get to my piano lessons when I was only four years old. I took a bus for an hour to get to where my grandparents were living, also alone, when I was only 7. These were all impossible in Vancouver and could easily be considered as an accident or a disaster. Holding Grandma’s hands, my brother came home every day. Time to time, I was at home or a local library, chatting with friends before they made their way back home together. If it were now, I would’ve run to his school and went home with him and Grandma, talking about what happened at school. At that time, I wasn't acutely aware of that Grandma wasn’t our babysitter, but our Grandma. Back then, I did not know who she was to my family and me.

Looking back, Grandma was an oh-so-very social person. She had no hesitancy in talking to anyone who was around. In her mother-tongue, Korean, all the time. No exceptions. Usually, it was her murmuring some Korean sentences in her mouth. It was either her or another Canadian sitting right by her side who stared at me, returning to where she was taking a break in a shopping mall, with such a great smile. Some of the Canadians whom Grandma was talking to looked baffled and made eye-contact with me as if they were looking for a translator available on site. I still vividly remember how they looked, how their faces shone with a tint of smile at the end of their lips.

Having sixty years apart between Grandma and me, we used to watch television together. As a teenager, going through an emotional storm every single day, I was passionately in love with a character, or two, of some TV shows, and she used to partner up with me while watching them. When a fictionalized couple learned about each other's true dedication to love and lip-locked under the moonlight, Grandma put her hands onto her eyes, as she was avoiding the scene, with an unmistakable sound of big SIGH letting out of her mouth. Every time Grandma blocked her vision with her hands, I tried putting them down, being silly and blurring a smile on my face. Among us, the real girl was me, but Grandma seemed more like a girl, much more real than my version of a girl.

To Grandma, love was something like a set of eyes that she had to hide so that she wouldn't face anything and no one could see her.

Numerous couples got married in the way that Grandpa and Grandma became married. Compared to the current generation, the night before marriage was the day they met on a blind date, and the day they get married was the second date. It made such a logic for a couple to feel shy about each other and to feel embarrassed about oneself. It was understandable even if one kept asking oneself, out of a worry, if whatever she/he was about to do was a right thing to do, or if whatever she/he intended to do was a mistake. A feeling expressed was like crossing a line that was never allowed to get crossed. An action demanded should’ve been un-demanded; people in Korea, back in those days, called it Love.

During the short period when she was married to Grandpa, she blocked her mouth herself so that she wouldn’t express her true devotion to him. She blocked her ears so that she didn’t have to listen to all the rumors people were spreading based on Grandpa’s actions; this was how much she wanted to protect her love toward Grandpa.

When my brother was born, I was nine years old. The baby boy whom the whole family had been waiting for. To parents, he was a son. To Grandma, he was a grandson. To me, he wasn’t anything particularly special, nothing so much different with my younger sister; he was just another younger sibling. People smiled in a different way looking at him, and I wondered why. My sister was considered to be a blessing bearer, and everyone’s smiles reached her, but it did not reach me. However, I loved my brother’s being that made my Grandma so happy. He was like a human doll that I could use in a role play, and he made the most adorable face when pooping. Because I used to open all the snacks as soon as I found them whether or not I was interested in eating, Grandma used to be busy hiding them in kitchen cabinets. It didn't hurt my feelings that she hid all those snacks for my brother. I just liked when Grandma scolded me for finding the snacks and opening them. I just liked that she snatched snacks from my hands and gave away to my brother. Usually, I sat right beside my brother and ate snacks with him with a big smile while looking at Grandma.

A few weeks ago, a new female seamstress started working at the company I now work at. This Chinese lady is in her mid-50s, looking so much alike Grandma - similar height, similar face shape, similar outer appearance and a familiar vibe. Every time I passed by her sewing table, I looked back to check on her again. She is probably 25 years-or-so younger than Grandma, but looking at her strengthens the image of my Grandma, who scolded me for opening all the snacks, who watched television shows with me having this awkwardly cute smile.

I imagine that these little particles of memories lost colors and evaporate in the air through the passage of time. I can only imagine, but nothing else about the idea of losing memories. She cannot recognize my cousins who spent more time with her in Korea. She is unable to remember grandpa who passed away years ago, my dad who immigrated to Canada a few years ago, my mom who delivered my brother, a new world, to her, my sister who got all the attention for being the blessing-bearer, or even my brother who is going to College in a few months; no one can never refresh her lost memories. There is absolutely no possibility that I would make her remember all those people although I chased after her all my childhood and laughed so hard with her in those years, I would still spot her right away, run into her and give her a hug.

I will still make the loudest laugh in front of her while having her faded memories in myself. I am sure that she will smile like a little girl who's all blushy, covering her open mouth with her hands.

#grandmother #grandma #dimentia #losingmemory

Guest Blogger: Writing seems pretty bad...

Beginning this article, I found myself somewhat worried. The reason being what Plato says about writing. Plato says four things about writing that stand out to me. First, writing is inhuman, "a manufactured product." Second, writing destroys memory. Third, a written text is unresponsive, and going along with that is the fourth: written word cannot defend itself. As I write this blog post, I find myself worrying that my memory is being destroyed. Ong goes on to write that writing or script differs from oral speech because it does not come from the unconscious. Oral speech is natural, and it just flows from us without a problem, but when we write, we are constantly thinking about how to put our thoughts into words. For example, I wrote the previous sentence a few times. Each time I wrote the sentence, I was changing the words to make it seem like it has a flow, and I also paused many times to think. If I was speaking this blog, I would not have time to stop and think about how I want my sentences to sound. I would just say what I wanted to say. With all this in mind, I find it strange that I am still writing. Would it not be best if I were to just speak these words in class, and let my unconscious take over? As I am writing, I am trying to keep these things in mind, and I am trying to stop myself from thinking about what to write. I am trying to just let everything flow as if I were speaking this blog aloud. Should we stop writing? Are we really destroying out memory, and only causing problems by writing?

#notmichaelburns #scary #losingmemory