My Memories Ask About You all the Time
When my grandmother, Mary Patricia “Pat,” was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease nearly nine years ago, I did not know what to think. An independent woman with a classic style and vast imagination, she was once a singer, painter, teacher, wife, sibling, mother, and grandmother. Like many, I knew nothing about a disease that had transformed a woman that I grew up idolizing into a one who barely recognized me. She was diagnosed just weeks after her husband, and my grandfather, passed away in 2014. Originally with 60% memory loss, the state of her cognitive abilities quickly declined in a short period of time. I soon began to notice the effect this disease had on my grandmother, my immediate family, and myself. I decided to take my grief and convey these complex feelings and emotions into photographs.
“My Memories Ask About You All the Time” is a series of photographs that explore what the meaning of family, home, and memory signify when a loved one can no longer remember simple thoughts such as family members’ names, whether a stove has been left on, or how to care of themselves independently.
Alzheimer’s disease not only alters the reality of those diagnosed, but also transforms the present and future for their loved ones that surround and support them. Through my photographs and project, I attempt to re-examine one’s perception of what memories mean while coming to terms with an altered idea of the future for both myself and my family.
My grandmother sweeps her back porch nearly every afternoon in Omaha, Nebraska. Just weeks after my grandfather’s death in 2014, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.
My grandmother’s back porch sits empty after my she moved out the place she called home for almost 50 years. With leaves piling up outside, it would be the last time I would see the house before it was torn down.
My grandfather, Harry, poses in a photo with Pat. They were married for almost 60 years. Towards the end of his life, he routinely joked that he was the mind of their marriage and Pat was the muscles. The couple relied on each other to navigate life. After his passing and her Alzheimer's diagnosis, the meaning of his words became more clear.
My grandmother Pat stares out the kitchen window from her breakfast table, grasping the chair where Harry, her husband of almost 60 years, always sat.
Pat makes dinner for three individuals: her, myself, and my grandfather, forgetting that her husband had passed away. She frequently forgot about his passing. I never could tell her the truth, afraid that it would merely upset her. Instead, I would say that he was on a business trip or that he would be home later, realizing the importance of living in the reality of those who have been diagnosed.
My grandmother looks for her dog, Tootie, after believing that she lost her. Pat often forgets the Tootie’s name, instead referring to her simply as “dog.”
My father, John, stands in the sunroom of the house that he lived his entire childhood in, saying his last goodbyes before it is torn down.
Pat’s days are almost never the same. Sometimes she is happy and easy going. Other times, it is a different story.
A picture of grandmother at 18 years old. When As a young child, I idolized my grandmother for her determination, creativity, and outspokenness. These qualities did not disappear after her Alzheimer’s disease diagnosis, but were rather overshadowed with confusion.
One evening, I had suggested to my grandmother that I could take her out for dinner. She misunderstood, which resulted in a state of panic seen here, as Pat searches through the pages of books at her bedside table for money to pay for the meal. I ended up making dinner for her at home.
My grandmother's room still smells of her perfume the last time I rubbed my toes between the room's retro carpet. I had always thought of the room as grandiose, only to notice how small and relatively normal it was once all of her belongings were gone.
For almost my entire life, my family has celebrated Christmas at my grandparents’ home, with Pat doing most of the cooking and baking. An avid cook myself, I learned a lot from her as a child. This particular Christmas, my grandmother sits and watches as her family prepares the meal.
With the table and decorations gone, an empty room is all that remains.
With her dog at her side, my grandmother Pat ties her shoelaces in her bedroom before stepping outside.
My father walks with his mother on an outing one winter afternoon. After her diagnosis, she began to develop trouble remembering his name. She often referred to her son as “that boy,” unaware of the effect that this had on him.
Pat was an exceptional gardener most of her life. She taught me the joy that can come from a relationship with our surrounding natural world. She does her best to still keep things up in her personal garden.
My mother measures the height of my brother and myself in my grandmother's home for the final time.
Moving boxes sit against the 1960s-style bamboo wallpapered halls.
My grandmother looks back at her front porch.
Even though he knows it is to be demolished, my father locks the front door of his childhood home for the final time.
My grandmother waits for the other members of our family to catch up with her while on an outing one day.
