My grandmother told me the name of the condition my grandfather's in. It's called Expressive Aphasia. Namely, he's all there, but he just can't communicate. A brief internet search makes it sound like a mild, old age thing, although I haven't looked very thoroughly. I've come across some really technical stuff, but what I want to hear is stories from other people who have experienced it. She explained it briefly, how the lack of oxygen to the brain caused parts of it to shut down, and that we need to learn how to trigger these parts to get them to open up again. (In other words, some of the wires came unplugged.) Anything can trigger it, big things, little things, things in between. Sometimes he reacts, sometimes he starts doing new things. He laughs at jokes or funny things that people say or do (often before my grandmother does). He protests when he doesn't want to do something. Today, he kept saying "aha ha ha ha." I've never heard him do this before. It's wasn't regular laugh, he was simply saying "aha ha ha" over and over. Something new. Something we all leap on in hope.
I'm losing my memories of him. The real him I knew growing up as his spoiled favorite grandaughter. *cough* Lately my grandmother's been telling me stories of how they met, where they went, what they did, how they lived. A side I never knew before. He was dyslexic, had problems reading, but certainly no problems learning. (I often wondered why my grandmother read road signs out loud when they were driving someplace new.) He could use the computer, he could run a video camera, he could set a VCR timer, he was able to do almost anything he attempted. (or at least hide all evidence.)
I keep trying to remember. I remember the day they took him to the hospital, how confused and scared I was. And how I ended up babysitting four neighborhood kids because everyone else was confused and scared, too. And then Erin came home and we waited, and waited, and wondered. And our argument with Mom about her not telling us things because "she didn't want us to worry." The weeks afterward, while he was in a coma, suddenly learning about all the complexities of comas and wondering what would come next. The awful nursing home, then my grandparent's bedroom transformed into a hospital room. A sunny, cheerful hospital room, but chrome was never part of my grandmother's decorating.
I distinctly associate the smell of sawdust with him and his workshop. His fingernails were always broken, bruised and cracked, his hands were rough, cut, and generally scuffed. Always tanned from working outside. His belt buckle collection that he loved. The twinkle in his eyes that he'd get when he grinned. He never smiled. It was always a grin. The teasing he gave Erin and me that palm sanders were meant for "sanding palms" and then he'd demonstrate on his calloused hands. Him telling me that he never went to yard sales anymore because he'd bought all the yard he needed. Yes, he teased a lot. We never talked much. We didn't need to, we were kindred spirits. We'd sit next to each other on the sofa and then try to imitate each other. He collected McDonald toys. He'd go in, buy a coffee and ask for a toy. That was the last thing we did together, going around town to all the McDonalds, trying to buy all the pieces to the Snow White and the Seven Dwarves collection. We got them all, too.
I can't remember everything, though. I know there's things in the back of my mind, that if I thought long enough, I might bring it back, tell you about the way he walked, or talked. Part of me wants to keep it there, because it hurts too much to remember. I know I stare like an idiot at his brother whenever I see him, because I see my grandfather there, too, and I can't pick out which bits are who, but I just KNOW I can figure it out, and I want to see it again, and not have these past twelve years of him so terribly altered. (his brother must feel so very uncomfortable when he's around us, all these women just STARING at him. My aunts have all commented on how eerie it is.)
They're working on getting a speech pathologist for him. And a wheelchair van. Take him to experience new things, help him reopen those shut passages. Try something new, see if it helps. See if anything helps. We still need him to come back.
I'm losing my memories of him. The real him I knew growing up as his spoiled favorite grandaughter. *cough* Lately my grandmother's been telling me stories of how they met, where they went, what they did, how they lived. A side I never knew before. He was dyslexic, had problems reading, but certainly no problems learning. (I often wondered why my grandmother read road signs out loud when they were driving someplace new.) He could use the computer, he could run a video camera, he could set a VCR timer, he was able to do almost anything he attempted. (or at least hide all evidence.)
I keep trying to remember. I remember the day they took him to the hospital, how confused and scared I was. And how I ended up babysitting four neighborhood kids because everyone else was confused and scared, too. And then Erin came home and we waited, and waited, and wondered. And our argument with Mom about her not telling us things because "she didn't want us to worry." The weeks afterward, while he was in a coma, suddenly learning about all the complexities of comas and wondering what would come next. The awful nursing home, then my grandparent's bedroom transformed into a hospital room. A sunny, cheerful hospital room, but chrome was never part of my grandmother's decorating.
I distinctly associate the smell of sawdust with him and his workshop. His fingernails were always broken, bruised and cracked, his hands were rough, cut, and generally scuffed. Always tanned from working outside. His belt buckle collection that he loved. The twinkle in his eyes that he'd get when he grinned. He never smiled. It was always a grin. The teasing he gave Erin and me that palm sanders were meant for "sanding palms" and then he'd demonstrate on his calloused hands. Him telling me that he never went to yard sales anymore because he'd bought all the yard he needed. Yes, he teased a lot. We never talked much. We didn't need to, we were kindred spirits. We'd sit next to each other on the sofa and then try to imitate each other. He collected McDonald toys. He'd go in, buy a coffee and ask for a toy. That was the last thing we did together, going around town to all the McDonalds, trying to buy all the pieces to the Snow White and the Seven Dwarves collection. We got them all, too.
I can't remember everything, though. I know there's things in the back of my mind, that if I thought long enough, I might bring it back, tell you about the way he walked, or talked. Part of me wants to keep it there, because it hurts too much to remember. I know I stare like an idiot at his brother whenever I see him, because I see my grandfather there, too, and I can't pick out which bits are who, but I just KNOW I can figure it out, and I want to see it again, and not have these past twelve years of him so terribly altered. (his brother must feel so very uncomfortable when he's around us, all these women just STARING at him. My aunts have all commented on how eerie it is.)
They're working on getting a speech pathologist for him. And a wheelchair van. Take him to experience new things, help him reopen those shut passages. Try something new, see if it helps. See if anything helps. We still need him to come back.
