Saturday, November 7, 2015

An Open Letter to You from Grandpa with Dementia

I understand you more than you think I do.  I know how it feels to be invisible. What you say doesn’t matter. What you think doesn’t mean anything. They can’t hear you. They can’t see you.

You pretend you don’t care. I act like I’m not even there.

They say you’re impatient and I’m a mental patient. You’re making them lose their minds while I’m losing my mind. We can’t do whatever we want. They say you’re still gullible. For me, it’s simply impossible. I should take a nap than make my bones snap.

They say you’re a joke and I am the joke. You don’t know what to do with your life. I don’t know where I hid my denture last time.

You are young. I am old. We are in the extremes but we know where we stand. Adults are in between. They know better. It seems. But I’m the eldest so, I must know best.

I know how tired you are waiting for your turn. How anxious you are to do things on your own. How deep is your longing for time to pass by. How eager you are for tomorrow to come.

You think old views are lame. Everything should be as easy as a game. But still, let me tell you these.

I’m clueless. I don’t know which is which anymore. Is the red pill for back pain or for weight gain? I’m restless. I need to do this. I need to do that. All the things I wanna do are long overdue. I’m shameless. I say whatever, complain whenever even when I can’t stop soiling my pants. I’m worthless. Just on the wheelchair, hugging a teddy bear. But for once, remove “voiceless” in my self-deprecating list.

Let the “less” in me make you see the “more” in you. Forget the word “quickly.” Do everything passionately. Stop being in a hurry.  

When all that is left is memory, you don’t want it to be blurry.