Since our writing workshop last week I’ve changed the focus of my paper. I was writing a life history of my father, but due to the state of his treatment right now he would prefer to not share his details right now. This was after conducting a couple interviews with him already. I respect his privacy, so I’ve had to get a quick jump on the topic I’ve switched too. My grandmother recently passed away from Alzheimer’s and her story is one that I’ve always kept in the back of my mind. During her disease, I watched her slowly start to fade into another person and lose capabilities to remember her family and events she once enjoyed. She used to tell me stories about her childhood over and over again and I used to get tired of hearing them but she loved to talk about it. Now I would give anything to hear her tell me those stories like she used too. The last year before she passed away she didn’t understand who we were and she rarely spoke but when we started singing her favorite Indonesian song she would join in, remembering every word. I remembered always being in awe, as I would see her whole demeanor change as she heard familiar music from her past. Our family went through changes as well, we were able to see who would end up helping their own mother through this disease and who wouldn’t. I saw my own flesh and blood in a new light and since then, nothing has ever been the same. This gives me the ability to give life to those moments I saw my grandma overcome her disease all because of her memories.
Author: Vairea (Page 2 of 2)
My grandmother Katerina Rutunuwu recently passed away from Alzheimer’s. I never truly had the stereotypical experience of my grandma baking me cookies or sending me postcards. She lived in Bainbridge Island while I spent my childhood in Maui, Hawaii. She was a 5′ 2” Indonesian womanm proud of her heritage, but always reserved. I heard many stories of her strict parenting from my mother, that Katerina supported her five children on her own. My Oma is the only grandparent of mine that I got to know, everyone else passed away before I got to know them. It wasn’t until we moved to Port Townsend, Washington that we lived close enough to spend time with her. My earliest memories with my grandma were watching her favorite show, wrestling. Her small apartment building always smelled like curry and rice. Her Mont Blanc pen would lay next to personalized stationary and her hand writing was distinctly elegant.
My grandma had lived in that small apartment for over ten years. When I was a sophomore in High School, we started to get panicked calls from her in the middle of the night. One night she said that the people washing the outside of the apartment windows had climbed in while she was gone and stolen her jewelry. The next time she called she said that her neighbors were talking about her and she refused to leave her apartment. Finally, she told us that my cousin Chloe had stolen some of her clothes from her apartment. None of us knew why she was suddenly so suspicious of everyone in her life. Eventually she became so hysterical and afraid that we knew there had to be some reason for her change in character.
My grandma was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and taken to Crista Shores Retirement home in Silverdale, Washington. It was around this time that I saw our whole family start to fall apart. My Uncle Bobby was off traveling the world as a crew member on The Royal Princess cruise liner and rarely came home to Washington. My Uncle Rio lived in Seattle, Washington and complained he lived too far away to visit her. My aunt Kerrie felt too busy to visit. At first I understood their excuses, but I watched my own mom get more frustrated everyday with her mother’s growing disease and her siblings neglect. Eventually, we got a call that Oma had been wondering the halls at night. She didn’t know where she was at times. None of the family members (including my parents) felt that they could handle taking care of her full time. She then had to be moved into an assisted living home farther away from us, in Seattle.
I remember a time that my mom, grandma, and I were driving back to our home from shopping together in Silverdale. We were having my grandma over for the weekend and we were driving over the Hood Canal Bridge. At the time I thought I had bought the most adorable Rocket Dog brand slip on shoes (I was in the eighth grade) they had imprints of puppies on them. Anyway, a song played on the radio that involved a lot of drum solos and sing-a longs. Suddenly my grandmother put her hands in a fist and started banging them across my shoe box and singing along to the music. We all chimed in. There were moments like this that made us all forget my grandma was sick, and she could come back to us through music.
As the years started drifting by, my grandma became more and more unresponsive. While she was sick, her youngest child Bobby passed away of cancer at only 45. She attended the celebration we had for his life but she didn’t know why she was there. That was one of the hardest moments for my mom, Oma didn’t even remember who all of her children were most of the time. Her own son passed away, and she never knew.
To be continued/edited..
I read Joseph Mitchell’s story on Lady Olga and fell in love with his way of character descriptions. I then read his unfinished third chapter of what was going to be his memoir. He directly analyzes memory in this part:
“In the fall of 1968, without at first realizing what was happening to me, I began living in the past. These days, when I reflect on this and add up the years that have gone by, I can hardly believe it: I have been living in the past for over twenty years—living mostly in the past, I should say, or living in the past as much as possible.”
I’ve only lived nineteen years, and I don’t have moments that I want to move back to just yet. Yet, while working on my life history project of my dad, I find that he wants more than anything to live in the past. He struggles day to day with his disease, since he found out about it four years ago. Our lives changed when my dad got sick. He was the breadwinner of the family, the rock that tied us all together. He then needed us to be his rock. It was the most hard on him, he felt like a burden, or a small child that had to be constantly taken care of. He went through a succession of doctors, constantly telling him bad news. We lost our home to foreclosure during my senior year of high school and he had to shut down his business. Those years became so unpleasant, it didn’t seem like our family could catch a break.
Just one month ago my dad was approved for an experimental cure that was just released for his disease. Suddenly doctors were telling him he had a chance and it ignited the determined character my dad had thought he lost inside himself. The next few months he has left on the treatment are going to be just as hard as his fight before but this cure will give him the ability to look towards the future and what amazing moments he has to look forward to.
I couldn’t get the smell of burgers out of my t-shirts no matter how many times I washed them. Everyday I heard the screeching sound of the milkshake nozzle hitting the inside of the stainless steel cup. The grumble from my stomach from the smell of bacon as it hit the hot grill. Wiping ketchup bottles that burst from the steamy summer heat. Black aprons stained with ketchup, clam chowder, and thousand island dressing. My unfortunate decision to wear white sneakers. Washing unmeasurable amounts of red burger baskets and silverware. My first job.
“Can I get a knife?” A customer asked from the seating at the bar. He had a Smitty burger sitting in front of him. Two burger patties, three buns, lettuce, tomato, onion, cheese, bacon, and thousand island dressing, I can name it off the top of my head by now.
“I’ll tell you the way to eat a Smitty burger: take it, smash it down with the palm of your hand, then hold it in both hands and don’t let go. When that doesn’t work, set it on the ground and give it a good stomp.” This was a common question asked when someone ordered the famous Smitty burger at Fat Smitty’s Restaurant in Discovery Bay and this was a typical response you’ll hear from any of the employees.
This was my first real experience working at a job. Fat Smitty’s is located just 12 miles from the hometown I grew up in. This small area, family owned business gave me a waitressing job without having prior experience. They took a gamble with me but I expressed my dire need of money and my abundance of time that summer. I had just completed my first year of college and was financially dependent from my family. I didn’t know how to work for over four hours on my feet and still keep my head on straight. I ended up working over eight hours a day, usually four to five days a week.
I already had a relationship with the owners but I was also joining a team with the other waitresses. Luckily, they all could sympathize with my hectic first week, second week, third week, even my second month working. We all made mistakes, we just had to be able to bounce back and help each other. The food we served was ‘All-American’, burgers, milkshakes, fries, etc. The restaurant owners used to be in the Marine Corps so they support the military by including a donation box inside the restaurant; that goes towards paying for the military’s food if they stop by in uniform. Flags hang from the walls, military pictures, and signatures hang in the hallways. What also makes this restaurant a destination for tourists and locals is the money hanging from the ceilings. For thirty years it’s been a tradition (not a requirement) that people decorate a dollar and hang it on the walls. The money has only been taken down once in 2012 and amounted to $10,316 and was donated to the St. Jude’s Childrens Research Hospital and local boy scouts. This makes it an iconic destination for tourists visiting Discovery Bay, especially in the summer time.
By the end of my first day I had orange and purple splotches from permanent ketchup or blackberry syrup on my brand new black apron. My feet were aching because I wore red vans with absolutely no support. I messed up two orders that ended up backing up the kitchen. I spilled a tray on the ground. I got sprayed in the face from the milkshake machine. After my first day of work, I never wanted to go back. I was being a complete child about having to spend eight hours running around on my feet. I doubted myself and my ability to handle stressful situations and right then I realized I was holding myself back from finally being independent. So the next day, I went back.
This is the second day of class and the first post to my wordpress site.