The One with the Pain of Forgetting

Last weekend on my quick drive through my hometown, my mom and I stopped by the assisted living facility to visit my Grandma Mary. Grandma has had many health scares in the past few years, and always it's hard to know if and when to rush to her side (me being a few hours away.) But she's almost 89 now, and I realize I need to take every opportunity I have to see her. I have watched her transition from my spunky, independent, mobile grandmother to a more and more frail (yet still spunky) version of herself. It's been hard watching her body show the signs of age, but it's manageable.

But last Friday was the first time I've felt the devastating pain I've only heard about in second hand accounts. My Grandma Mary didn't know me. When I walked into her room to say hello, she looked a bit confused, but nothing out of the ordinary. I didn't notice that she had never spoken my name (a "must" for my adoring Grandma) until she was talking to me about "Danny" (my dad) few minutes later. I finally said, "Yes, my dad has shown me where he grew up."

She walked slowly out of the bathroom and said, "I'm sorry, but who's your dad."

"My dad is Danny, your son, Grandma," I said as kindly as I could muster.

I went right to find my mom to tell her the situation and she couldn't believe either. This was a first for Grandma. She had long-ago lost her "social filter" on the things that come out of her mouth, but never before had she forgotten any one of us.

For the next few minutes, Grandma kept asking my mom who I was and calling me Donna--most likely after her niece. I broke down in tears when I called Kevin to tell him of the heartbreaking experience.

We went back to visit Grams two days later. I had my hopes up that her mind would have clicked back into reality, that she would know me and look at me with her eyes filled with pride. We have spent so much time together over the years, my Grandma Mary and me. I never considered the possibility that she would forget her granddaughter.



But upon entering her room a second time, she called me "Hun" and "Donna" once again. And even when my dad tried to tell her I was his daughter, all she could say was, "Well I can see why you'd be so proud." But there no understanding in her eyes.

And so my grieving process begins now. All too soon for my liking. 

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The One with a Teensy Bit of Foodie Joy

In my almost daily perusal of Tasty Kitchen's website, I was shocked to see this on their main page--



eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!! I haven't been so thrilled in who knows how long!

Yep, that's right. I guess my little ol' waffle recipe has been climbing its way to the top of the Tasty Kitchen recipe collection. I couldn't believe my eyes! I literally burst out in excited exclamations when I saw it. I have seen that list of the top five "popular recipes" for months now. The honey oatmeal bread recipe has been on the list forever (I should try the recipe, right?) so to be joining it's ranks is a HUGE honor.

Can I just say eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!! one more time?!

The One with the End of Camp

My mother just informed me that it had been three days since I last posted. 

I know when my mom--the woman who would rather not be ushered into the technological realm--points out that my blog needs to be updated, well, then, gosh darn it, it needs to be updated. 

(No, mom, I was not actually offended by this comment. 

I just thought it was funny.)

Saturday was my last shift at Somerset Beach. 

I had originally planned on working through Labor Day. 

And sure, the paychecks would have been nice.

But ever since we had our teens spend the week with us for Family Camp, my heart needed to be back home--with those whipper snappers. 

Being away from the weekly youth group duties made me realize more and more that my passion lies with those teenagers.

While we did get to have youth group every Sunday, it just wasn't the same and the weekly commute was not all it was cracked up to be. 

My boss understood and agreed to let me go as soon as Kevin was done with youth camps. 

So we said our goodbyes, 

packed up our teensy car with all of our belongings, 

put the cat somewhere among the luggage, 

and hit the road. 

The poor kitty started crying and freaking out immediately.

He was not happy. 

And he was probably a bit demoralized thanks to his litter box being the only space for him to sit. 

It worked out alright because he had pooed within 10 minutes. 

And five minutes after that he threw up everywhere. 

It was so heartbreaking.

And disgusting. 

But at least he didn't poop on me like he did on the trip out to camp. 

He quieted down after that.

I stroked his soft little head for the remaining hour in the car. 

And he seemed to resign himself to the situation. 

It wasn't until Monday morning--or Sunday night really--that the change seemed real.

I mean, we always head home on Saturdays. 

We always did church and youth group.

But when I got to put on my pajamas after youth group, 

and wake up at home on Monday morning, 

that's when I realized we were back for good. 

It was bittersweet. 

Mostly because I'll miss the people I worked with.

And being close to half of our family.

Monday afternoon I said to Kevin, "I should call Somerset just to talk to Debbie." 

I love that girl. 

We had so much in common. 

A young marriage. 

A cat. 

A love for blogging. 

A desire to live healthfully.

An identical wardrobe size.

A mom who fought breast cancer. 

(Debbie just completed the 60 mile Breast Cancer 3 Day Walk in honor of her mom, Anna.)

An appreciation for quiet evenings home with a book over crazy evenings out with people.

A passion for God. 

We had many deep talks, Deborah and I.

We shared secrets, 

gave advice, 

laughed at hilarious moments, 

complained about certain frustrating scenarios, 

and enjoyed the silence. 

She's a great friend and I'm going to miss her.