Isabelle Silbery: A letter to Emmie.

Dear Emmie,

Do you remember singing me that lullaby? When I was little and couldn’t sleep? I remember. And I hope I never forget.

I walked in to visit you today, taking a deep breath as I put on my mask. You are in a beautiful aged care facility around the corner from us. The staff are gentle and smiling and the food smells good. Mum loves it so much, she’s booking herself in for 10 years hence.

Every so often you’ll ask me when you are going home. I hate this question. Even though I’m deeply at peace with the answer and am certain it's the absolute best thing for you to be in care, it’s still hard to answer you. We’ve always been real with each other so I always answer honestly:

‘Because you’ve got dementia, Emmie.’

Watch: What is dementia? Story continues after video.

You smile every time, “Ah yes, I forgot about that”, and we both crack up laughing. Then you say, “oops, I think I've laughed too much”. We laugh again and I take you to the bathroom. 

I don't know if you remember changing my explosive nappies while mum was at work, or if you remember patting me on the back while I cried, or rocking me to sleep.

But what I do know is that this all feels weird for me. I know it’s not about me, but as your granddaughter, this was never a role I saw myself playing; in the bathroom with you at this moment.

As a mother myself, I know too well the patience it takes to protect your little one. ‘Don’t touch that. Sit down here. Watch out for that. Don’t forget this’. It’s never-ending, but if only we knew that all that practice will make us a better carer for our parents or grandparents. 

Em, you’re not a child - far from it, and I hate that I’m drawing this analogy. You’re a mature, wise, accomplished, experienced woman. The matriarch of our family. The one who keeps us together.

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At your age of 94, you’ve had a very full life. You still steal biscuits from the dining area (I see you) which perhaps stems from your life of poverty and upbringing during the great depression. 

You value your family, as an orphan, losing your parents at such a young age. You love children because you’ve had five but lost two. I watch you talking to all the other people here, putting a smile on their faces, even the ones who don’t speak or are grumpy bums. You thrive on human connection and it must be the nurse coming out in you. 

Nurse Emmie doing her rounds like you used to in the Royal Hobart Hospital. Chatting to people who didn’t just need medical care but a laugh and a gentle touch. They say this happens with people who suffer from dementia - they go back to the person they used to be years earlier, when they had purpose.

Image: Instagram

I love that you check out the eligible men here. Oh, it makes me love you even more! And by eligible, I’m not even sure they know what day it is, like you, but I bet they’ve had an equally amazing life. 

I love it that you still love love, and are unashamed of that part of you. You often remind me that my grandpa was and still is your one and only love, and that you've always wanted to be reunited with him, listening to Frank Sinatra. Even in death.

Speaking of music, I’ve decided this is where you and I can communicate in the rapidly approaching future. We’ve always bonded over Dolly, danced to Frank and hummed in harmony to Mozart. So it only seems fitting, as our communication becomes less and less verbal, that we have to focus on something stronger and everlasting: music.

Dementia is called ‘the long goodbye’ because you're watching your loved one deteriorate cognitively and physically before your very eyes.

It’s torture more for us as a family than it is for you Emmie. I won’t ever tell you that, but to be honest, the beauty of dementia is that you would forget anyway. It’s like the movie 50 First Dates, and every day we are just trying to make you happy.

You’ve said to me, "I’m blank. Each day comes and then it goes." But you still have a smile on your face every day when I see you and that makes everything OK. I’m the one grieving you. Grieving you while you are physically still alive, and yet you are going, slowly but surely.

It breaks my heart that one day you will go, and I just want you to go peacefully. Hopefully listening to music.

So, it's Friday. I walk in to see you, this time for happy hour. Wine, nibbles and entertainment. You don't know I’m coming, of course you don't. But as I walk in, I’m confronted with a room of old people.  

A sea of walkers, glasses of wine in shaking hands and the sound of faltering voices. They are all singing along to the old songs. I find you in the crowd and proudly squat down next to your chair and hold your hand. You look over at me and your eyes say it all; ‘Oh, it’s you.'

You know who I am and you smile at me whilst not missing a note. 

Image: Instagram

I look around at everyone. They may be dementing, sick or impaired but they’ve all lived a life just like you, and they remember all the words to their favorite song. A song that reminds them of their courtship or their first job or their overseas adventures or the war. Music is the longest-lasting gift of all.

I make a promise, holding your hand and singing along to ‘Somewhere over the rainbow’ (through my mask, hiding all the snot from crying), that I will not get annoyed with the fact that things have changed. I will be patient; I will accept my role as your granddaughter and I will serve you like a queen. 

I will bring in our photo albums and reminisce with you and play you our favorite Dolly Parton songs. I will validate your fears and I will take you to the bathroom when we’ve laughed too hard.

Someday we’ll all be gone, but as Billy Joel said, ‘Lullabies go on and on, and that’s how you and I will be.’

For more from Isabelle Silbery, follow her on Instagram.

Feature Image: Instagram/isabellesilbery