La Mia Nonna (My Grandmother)

My nonna, my grandmother, recently passed away. Although it was sad, it also marked the end of years of suffering with dementia, so it was also a somewhat of a relief. Since my Papa died two years earlier, her memory had grown increasingly worse. It was like he was her link between past and present, so once he was gone she became lost and disoriented. She was constantly in a state of fear, not knowing where she was, who we were, or even who she was. It was heartbreaking to watch this strong woman, who I had known for my entire life, digress into a child-like state. It was almost as if in an instant our roles had been switched in a freaky-friday-type of moment that would never switch back. Her children and grandchildren now needed to remind her to go to the bathroom, cooked for her, fed her, and constantly reassured her that everything was going to be okay, just as she had done with each of us when we were young.

There were, however, several instances when we made light of the situation, I think more as a coping mechanism than anything else. Laughing when she asked in labored Italian, if we were going to take the donkey or the car today? Or when she walked around singing a song about a man who carried a fart in his hand…"quillo che porta la vesci mano.” She slowly reverted to the distant past; her life in Italy, and her first years in America.

She began calling her children and grandchildren names from her past; my Aunt Cecilia, became Genuefa, the callous landlord of their first apartment in America, and my father became Pietro, her brother who had moved to America years before them. It must have been so scary to live in a world of friendly strangers, and ghosts from her past.

But these aren't the memories I'm going to keep at the forefront of my mind. Instead, I will remember at her very best. Greeting us on the porch when we came to her house with a big hug that suffocated you with love, and then the ritual pinching of the cheeks so she could judge just how much she would have to feed you in order to fatten you up by the time you left. I'll remember that stoic women who moved her family from the security of home to a new and foreign country. I'll remember the taste of her famous meatballs and angel wing pastries that she made from scratch for every family gathering. I'll remember her smell, like perfumed powder, sweat, and whatever she had been cooking that day. I'll remember the nicknames she called her grandchildren "cicanella" and "ni ni," as well as her attempt to pronounce our American names; Michelah (Mike), Brende (Brandon), Ashalee (Ashley), Cristina (Kristin), Jefadi (Jeff), and Aryanah (Ryan).

In remembering how vibrant, and proud she was before dementia set in, and how painful it was to watch her loose her entire sense of self, I realized how important memories are. It’s kind of strange to think about, but the past represents the majority of our lives, who we are, and where we’ve been. Except for one clear and present moment, memories are pretty much it. They hold a certainty that the future can never claim, and they can take us back to a place that seems so distant and so close at the same time.