Bottomless Pit 

Written by David Chung

According to many health and charity websites, dementia is a syndrome that destroys nerve cells and damages the brain. It leads to the deterioration of one’s ability to process thought, well beyond what might be expected in normal aging. The impairment to someone’s ability to think properly is commonly accompanied, and occasionally preceded by changes in mood, emotional control, behaviour, or motivation.

This is the clinical, emotionless definition of a disease that is currently the seventh leading cause of death, not to mention one of the major causes of disability and dependency among older people worldwide.

The terrifying, disturbing, emotional definition – the one of human experience – is much harder to comprehend. Dementia means losing yourself and the ability to function normally, something we all take for granted. It’s a slow, horrifying death; a memory-stealing demon; a dark, giant pit that drags its victims slowly and insidiously away from life.

But it is not just the sick who fall into this abyss; the family and friends of dementia patients are also pulled down in the wake of this painful process. They witness, they watch, and they grieve as their loved one sinks further and further down, bringing a part of them with them.

I can speak from personal experience—my paternal grandfather began displaying the effects of dementia almost two years ago. As time passed, the outgoing, bright star that was my grandfather lost his shine.

—

“Eish, I cut my nails too short,” Grandma exclaimed, turning her hand upward to catch it in the light. She examined her butchered job with a frown. 

Mom turned to her with an “It’s fine, happens to the best of us,” and proceeded to fold the pile of freshly cleaned clothes that stood colossally in front of her. 

My 할머니 (grandma), a chatty person, continued. “It’s because I haven’t cut my own nails for such a long time.” 

At that, my mom stopped folding. “What do you mean, for such a long time?” 

할머니 chuckled. “It’s because my husband has cut my nails for years.” 

By this point, the dress my mom had been folding into a triangle now lay unravelled in her hand. Her eyes now brimmed with curiosity. 

할머니 inhaled slowly and began to tell her story. “My husband has cut my nails every day for 45 years. But now he can’t, because of his dementia.” 

I whipped my head around. I had barely been listening to the conversation, just staying quietly in the corner, enjoying the hum of the matriarch’s conversation, but not yet getting involved. Some parts of the conversation went in one ear and out the other, but when I heard my 할머니’s definitive statement, I jolted awake. 

Frowning, I tried to think back to any relevant memories of my grandfather, any indications that he may have been developing this illness. Then I found it: 2 years previously, when I saw my father tugging a mountainous bin of Legos, sprinkled with a handful of puzzles, laboriously down the hallway. Eventually, he placed his bounty next to an open suitcase. Filled with interest, I asked, “Dad, what are you doing with all of that?” 

He breathed heavily from his efforts. “These are for your grandpa. He’s starting to have memory troubles, so this is gonna help him concentrate.” I assured myself it was just grandpa getting older, nothing more serious than that. This is why I slowly nodded in response. Leaving my father to it, I went back to my room. At the time, I didn’t see any need to speak further on the matter. People age, and with aging, I assumed, came memory loss. 

Returning to that moment now, my lips shut tight like a bear trap suddenly clamped itself over my mouth. I was taken by a sudden feeling of guilt and sadness. Although I did not harm my grandpa, I felt like I should have at least given his condition more thought. Had I wasted precious time by not doing so?

While I perched on the edge of this conversation, 할머니 continued in her reverie. “He cared for me, and for my family, as if we were his own. You know, in Korean culture, women are seen as beneath men in the social order. But my husband treated me differently, equally, with love and care. He was a gentleman, friend, lover, husband, and even a father figure; he transformed himself to be everything to me.” 

할머니 seemed dreamy, staring off into the cotton-candy warmth of her memories, and this fascinated me. I never knew my grandpa that way. To my brother and me, he was just our grandfather. I suppose I had taken for granted that, before we existed, he had had a life and an identity totally separate from us. 

I blurted out, “할머니, can you tell me more about him?” And then I turned to my mother, “I didn’t know grandpa was such a great and thoughtful man!” 

Mom smiled and replied, “There’s always more to a person than meets the eye.” 

While I processed her words, another thought came to me. “Mom, I want to preserve it. Could you translate what grandma says so that I do not miss any nuances?” She agreed, and I fired up my laptop. All the while, grandma sat with an expression of pleasure and happiness. I suppose the fact that I took an interest in her and my grandpa pleased her. 

So while 할머니 began to speak candidly with me about the experience of witnessing her husband of over half her life succumb to the monster that is dementia, I furiously recorded what she said. And I started with one very simple question that would launch a series of questions: “When did you first notice something unusual in grandpa's behavior or memory?” 

She answered easily, “It was when he kept asking the same questions repetitively on the same day, like he forgot constantly. At the time, I assumed this to be, perhaps, a momentary lapse of reason. I brushed it off and thought no further of it.”

We eased into a calm question-and-answer structure. I glanced up at 할머니 periodically, checking for any reactions, but I didn’t see many. She responded as if  these questions were as banal as: “Do you want to go to the mall tomorrow?” I could visibly see that discussing this topic was not something my grandma struggled with. She seemed used to it, almost as if she had adapted to my grandpa’s condition completely. I struggled to even process the fact that my grandpa had dementia, while grandma just threw that out there like a fun fact. 

Lying on the makeshift cot on the floor, I continued by asking 할머니, “How has grandpa’s personality changed over time?” Sitting on the bed, eating some chips, she casually replied, “Over time, he lost his smile and became more gloomy and depressed. Now, he stays home all the time and does not go out.” 

I nodded solemnly, torn between a powerful desire to know and a morbid fear of what it all meant for my family and me. 

Out of nowhere, 할머니 exclaimed, “Do you want some peaches?” At first, a little startled by the random interrogatory, the intense summer heat itched at my fingers, and I had to admit, they did sound refreshing. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

With that, we both went to the kitchen, my mom following closely behind. The two of us sat down while 할머니 washed and cut the fresh peaches, treating the bounty like delicate treasures. 

My mom offered to help, and while they worked together, I stared at my computer notes, half thinking about the interview, half thinking about my grandpa. 

When the preparations of the fruit had finished, 할머니 approached me with a wide smile and a plate stacked with peach slices. My mouth watered, and I thanked 할머니 and mom while stuffing my face. The encumbrance in my mouth did not stop me from asking another question: “What has been the most difficult part of this experience for you 할머니?” 

Once again, she replied with ease, “As his memory grows worse and worse, I have to accept that he is turning into a completely different person. I have to absorb his negative feelings. My husband has become my baby. Over time, some thoughts from the back of his head came to the forefront, whispering treacherously in his ear. He gradually started to believe and listen to those thoughts, and now his head is meddled with hostility towards others for no reason.” 

Mid bite, I turned to my 할머니, concerned, but I found her enjoying the peach slices gleefully. 

I turned back to my computer, still fearful that these questions were too personal, too intimate. I felt worry for my grandpa, but in that worry, I didn’t want to further distress my 할머니. From the looks of things, though, she still seemed eased into the matter, while I sat the embodiment of uncomfortableness. Nonetheless, I steeled myself once again, and proceeded with my questions. 

“Do you ever talk about the past with grandpa? How does he respond?” 

She answered, “Talking about the past with him is a luxury I can no longer afford. We used to treasure the times we could talk about the past, and went on and on for hours. But now, it’s difficult for me to even bring the subject up, seeing how he has forgotten our love.”

Though 할머니 showed no obvious pain when she answered me honestly, I began to recognize in her a far-off expression. She seemed tired mentally, weary of taking care of grandpa, until I asked her one last question. 

“Then what keeps you going?” 

She smiled. She took that in for a moment and then proceeded. “Well, you know, for 45 years we lived together happily, and just the thought of those years drives me to work hard, knowing how much he loved me. I think of your grandpa and me as one person, rather than separate people.”

There was a sense of reassurance in this melancholic truth—of course 할머니 had no resentment in her heart. In fact here, in this space with her now, I could see, even feel, the tenderness alive in her eyes as she looked over to my grandpa who sat watching TV, distracted and totally oblivious to the fact that his family was currently discussing  him. 

I felt like I truly understood. Even if it was hard to take care of my grandpa, that wouldn’t affect my 할머니’s unconditional love for him, no matter what. I finally shut my laptop and looked at her with gratitude. 

“Thank you,” I said, smiling with love and pride at the strength and bravery of my 할머니. Once again, she cheerfully responded with, “Of course!” 

That afternoon, I went back to my room and sat in quiet contemplation beside the truth contained in my notes.  할머니 had kindly taken me through her experience of this illness, and so I began to consider my own. Really thinking about it, I realized grandpa had practically been taken over by negative thoughts. Those “tiny whispers in the back of his head” persisted in misleading him. And now that he was old and in a fragile condition, he could not defend himself against them.

This whole interaction with my grandma was like an ice bucket to the face. I shuddered just at the thought of facing old age. When I was younger, I always assumed I would stay a kid, and that time would freeze. Now, I was facing the fact that time marches forward fast. I was now 15 years old, and it felt like just yesterday I entered middle school for the first time. Although I knew the principle of “time flies,” the quickness of this illness and its firm, treacherous grasp on my grandpa shook me. 

During our trip to Korea, I witnessed my grandpa spending day after day in the same monotonous routine. Eating, watching TV, then going out for a short walk after some light badgering from my grandma. I also caught glimpses of him reading the Bible in his room, and strangely, drawing pictures. I happened to take a look at some of his drawings and their progression over time. Each image was adorned with writing, which became increasingly crude towards the end. On the first few pages, the writing was neat and elegant, with well-formed letters. As I kept flipping pages, it started to look like a child had doodled carefree words on paper. 

My 할머니, sitting next to me, said, “The reason he draws so much is that it’s one of the very few things that keeps him grounded and prevents him from just losing his memory completely.” What a strange, sad feeling came over me to see that my grandpa’s writing now reflected the mindset and the artistry of a child. As his condition worsened, he lost a grip on things; dementia hadn’t spared his handwriting either. But what a little flicker of a fool’s hope when I also noticed that the drawings across the entire collection were identical in style and control. Yes, this illness had stripped him of his identity, of his lifestyle, of his way of thinking. All of these precious qualities of human independence were robbed from him. Except for his drawing style. I saw a fragment of my grandpa still remaining, among shattered pieces of glass. One of the last things he can call his own is expressed through drawing. 

The next day at breakfast, my heart felt heavy just looking at my grandpa, especially when I noticed his hands shaking from lifting his chopsticks. It felt heavier still when it came time for my parents, my brother and me to leave and return to our home in America. 

My eyes locked with my grandpa’s when I approached him to say what I hoped would not be my final goodbye. Although his hand shook, he slowly lifted it up, a signal for a handshake. I lifted my hand, and as our hands shook, a sort of light sparkled in his eyes, and he smiled, just like a little kid. My throat twisted as I let go.

Finally perched in the backseat of our taxi, I looked back at him through the window. I knew the next time I came back here, he would not be the same person, and I would have to learn to accept that. Like my grandma, I would focus instead on the memories we hold onto for him—about the man he was to her and the one he was to us. 

The taxi sputtered to life, driving out of the parking lot until I couldn’t see my grandparents waving back at us anymore.