Father Time

It happened at Tim Horton's, just after 2:00pm. Grandpa smiles and thanks the lady behind the counter as he picks up his tray. Grandma has already picked out a table for the two of them. The confusion begins when my grandfather turns around and sees his old neighbour facing him with a similar grin. He greets my grandfather with the kind of manners one can expect from an octogenarian.
     "Who are you?" My grandfather replies with a frown. His neighbour tries to remind him with the same old-world politeness, telling him how they used to live right next to each other before my grandparents moved across the river. Still my grandfather does not remember his name or face.
     I have told this story to many people, all of whom either shook their head or offered words of sympathy. All the while, I wore a wide, genuine grin. Sometimes, I even managed a chortle when recounting grandpa's confused encounter. Nobody seems to understand the unusual comedy that even my grandfather sees in his situation.
     I think the hardest part of seeing my grandfather like this is perhaps the knowledge that he and I will most likely make no new memories. When he wakes up in the morning, the important stuff is there, but any unnecessary memories vanish, as if they had never happened. Each day, we almost have to start over. Then again, as he always said with a brightness about him, "it's like you're meeting everyone again every day!"
     This brings me to the fact that, while he may be suffering from short-term memory loss, he is certainly not ignorant to it. I know that some days, his current state depresses him. He looks in the mirror and sees sinking eyes and thin, grey hair for want of the slim, dark "depression baby." I cannot even imagine how difficult this must be for an eighty-seven year old man who claims to be "mentally only thirty-two."
     That being said, grandpa has lost some of the really bad times. Most people would see this as a blessing for him, but it was in these times of hardship that my grandfather's character really showed through. When my mother was growing up, they went through a time of poverty. My grandmother owned a small toy shop and my grandfather stayed home to care for the house and the children. Despite the rarity of his role as a stay-at-home dad, my grandfather always took life with a grain of salt, doing his best to make life easier for his family. When all they could eat was hot dogs and rice, he threw in pineapple and coined the dish "Hawaiian tube-steaks." It was the times of hardship that my mother looks back on with the most fondness. My grandfather knew that laughing was the only thing to stop his family from crying.
     I've always feared growing old. The images of a sorry, decrepitated life has filled my mind since I was old enough to grasp the concept of aging and death. It almost seems unfair to deteriorate in such a way after living an accomplished life. Looking back at pictures of my grandfather, I can hardly believe that the handsome, mannerly boy is the same man sitting across from me, telling me the same jokes he told me yesterday. I smile and laugh at them all the same. He chuckles, his mouth in a denture-white smile, his young, jubilant eyes meeting mine as his brain tries to piece together the next Jay Leno wisecrack. My grandmother is sitting in the chair next to him, her long fingers holding his arm, heart filled with the same unconditional love for her husband that she had when she owned that toy store. Despite his lack of memories, he still knows that he has to make us laugh in order to keep us from crying. He's lost those memories, but the love he has for us will never change. Grandpa goes into another story, fresh and untold to him, but a story my grandmother and I recognize immediately. She looks up at me with apologetic eyes, I simply smile at her as we both turn our attention to the reminiscing Fenlon farm boy. For my grandfather, perhaps aging isn't so bad.
     I can understand those who do not find humour in the stories of my grandfather's aging. It took a long time for me to see it, longer than it took for my grandmother. Of course, my grandmother had seen it before with her parents and grandparents, so perhaps she knew what to expect. She knows that there isn't anything that anyone can really do for him at this point except love him, listen to him, and treat him like the incredible husband, father, and grandfather that he was then and still is today. Eventually, after many long, emotional discussions with my grandmother, I came to terms with this as well. What my grandfather needs most from me now is all the love I can provide in his final years. He has nothing but love for everyone and everything around him; such love should be returned. And when I see that proud man in those young, jubilant eyes, returning that love is not hard to do. I know that if I am the kind of man my grandfather was during his life, I can expect my children and grandchildren to have the kind of love that I have for him. I know that if I am the kind of loving, selfless man that he was, growing old won't be so bad for me either.