It's what she would always say.

Whether it was a casual visit or Thanksgiving, the question of, "What can I bring?" was always answered the same way:

"A bushel of fifties!"

This line is not reserved for just family.  Many a restaurant server who innocently asked if she needed anything else would hear this response. It's the kind of thing that would make all of us cringe, as we had all heard it a hundred times before and smiled politely everytime while silently wishing she'd never again utter those words.

Now, as her light seems to get a little dimmer everyday, as Alzheimers, like a thief in the night, has taken away her personality and memory and motorskills, I welcome any glimmer of her old self.  I look for signs that she is improving everytime I visit her, but they are not there. I have accepted the fact that all of the good memories I have of her have already been made.

My grandmother was born in 1929 to two Italian immigrants. She was one of eight children and once worked as a waitress in a diner where a man got drunk and fell asleep in his soup. I remember her telling me that story when I was a kid.

The woman I choose to remember is funny and tough, a fantastic card player, a wizard of Scrabble and crossword puzzels, a master of grilling, pie making, knitting, sewing and an avid watcher of "The Young and the Restless".  She treated her loved ones well but you would not want to get on her bad side.  She would hold a grudge beyond the point of absurd.  My own mother would often say to me while I was growing up, "Do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?"  My grandmother was always more concerned with being right, which unfortunately for her, severly impacted her happiness.

As this is certainly the final chapter of her life I am doing what I can to make it as pleasant as possible, which of course does not feel like enough.  While I am afraid of her dying, I am more afraid of her living in this darkness and confusion indefinetly.