She had a beauty routine known only to those close to her, but a fierce secret to outsiders. Grandma was gorgeous, but if you asked her, she was the ugly duckling compared to her older sisters. I used to flip through her black and white photo albums- the ones with the magnetic backing and plastic film to cover and hold the photos in place- and think she was crazy to not consider herself a beauty. The trick was to appear like her youth was effortless. Her first layer of scent was Jean Nate. Such a throwback to the 70s and 80s, fresh out of her shower. I can smell it now even as I type. I'm transported to my childhood home, where my grandparents lived with us and my mom's brother too. The epicenter of most holidays until my early teens when we all moved.
A clear sign her Alzheimers was advancing quickly was when Grandpa started dressing her. He picked her outfits every day, and often head to toe in a single color. All pink. All red. All brown. All yellow. Never combinations she would have chosen herself, but the monochromatic color scheme was how he ensured she matched and therefore she couldn't be mad at him, even if she didn't actually register what she wore. And hats. Big hats to protect her face because Grams had porcelain skin that belied her age. Not that she'd ever tell you the exact number, as she revelled in being mistaken for our mothers' sister, or our mother, when we went out. Sarte women always travel in packs, so this was a common occurrence.
I used to rummage through her walk-in closet. Opening all her shoe boxes and trying them on. I had surprisingly big feet for my age, so I tottered around in her heels from around 9-10 years old. My first pair of heels were borrowed from her and worn for my 8th grade graduation. She was somewhat of a socialite in the Philippines. I recall stories of her involvement as a Blue Lady of Imelda Marcos. What that means in reality, I have no clue as these were just casual references from my youth but perhaps that's why she had so many shoes.
I vividly remember one of her last lucid moments with me. Spring of 2010 and I was about to move to Boston, 3000 miles from home and farther than anyone else in my family a thousand times over. Sheer luck that my brother ended up in dental school mere weeks after my move. Grandpa drove me to John Wayne airport, with Grams buckled into the back seat, smiling and chatting with us both. I was so stressed as of course I was running late. I was impatient and wanted to just get there and through security to relax. I underestimated the nerves of moving so far away, with less than 2 weeks between getting the promotion and my actual flight. We arrived at the terminal and I was flying about, getting the luggage from the trunk, fidgeting. Grandpa was fretting and lecturing as he is prone to do, but Grandma was serene. She wrapped me in a hug so tight and said she loved me and to come home soon. My biggest regret is I didn't savour this moment, her embrace, her lucidity as I should have. I rushed the hug and was off. I didn't even look back. Impatient like only a 20 something can be. Rushing off to sit and wait. So stupid.
The next time I saw her was that winter. My brother and I took emergency flights back to California because she had deteriorated so rapidly through summer and fall that she was admitted into hospice. We thought her time had come. She was no longer mobile and frozen in position due to the Parkinsons triggered by her Alzheimer's. Clarity of mind, even for a moment, was a thing of the distant past. We had to turn her to prevent bed sores and put washcloths in her clenched fists to protect her delicate skin. I changed her diaper the way she changed mine as a baby. But my god, despite how this disease ravished her, she was still luminous. Beautiful. Every care worker and nurse always commented and Grandpa would beam with pride. Grandma is his one true love, together since they were 19 and inseparable.
I never imagined she would linger in this state for another 7 years. She used to visit me in my dreams, the woman of my youth, and I would wake up sobbing and clutching at her. I often wished she would pass to end her suffering then feel tremendous guilt at the thought. She could hear, she could see, but couldn't move. I know she felt pain and fear. I hope she felt our love even if she didn't recognise us. Sometimes she spoke in her native childhood dialects and sometimes her eyes flickered at your voice, at your name. But that wasn't really her. That's not how I want to remember her, though those memories are burned into my brain as if branded with an iron. I am lucky compared to my mom, her siblings, my grandpa. I was protected by distance and did not often have to face her reality like they did.
Instead I will think about her dancing in the kitchen. Playing mah-jong at the parties she and Grandpa threw, where the men were banished to play poker in the garage. Singing in the church choir where the director clearly adored her as she was often front and center, impeccably dressed, standing out in a sea of other ladies.
I've inherited her love of all things luxurious and decadent. I have my own perfume collection on my bathroom vanity, modelled after her tray of proudly displayed scents in sensuous bottles. Each carefully curated for my mood, season, vibe. But I hope most of all that I take after her generous heart and spirit by making those I love feel safe, unjudged, unique and special, because that's how Grandma made me feel.
Sleep well, Grandma. Please visit me still in my dreams. I miss you.
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