My mother called at 7am PST today. I knew what she was going to say before I picked up the phone.

“Hi Mom,” I said.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Good, how are you?” I replied.

“Well, I just called to tell you your Grandma Greer died this morning,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness.

My grandmother was neither young nor healthy. For the past several years she has battled a form of dementia- not Alzheimer’s, but very similar. She got to the point where she didn’t recognize family and probably didn’t know her own identity. She was 92, would’ve been 93 in February.

It’s probably a blessing that she’s been unaware of things for so long. She didn’t have to know her middle son died, that my parents were in such dire straits. She didn’t have to see the war coverage and understand or feel the worry I know she would have.

Dementia, to me, is a disease for the unaffected family and friends as much -if not more so- than the patient who has it. It was very hard on my Dad to watch her decline.

I’ve known for a few years that this morning’s call would come. It was far from a surprise, but my reaction left me somewhat surprised.

There was a family schism when I was about 8, and my Grandpa Greer pretty much cut off contact with us. My Grandmother didn’t like it, but I think she felt compelled to go along with his dictatorial actions. This estrangement lasted until my Grandpa died when I was 21. After that, there were a few years of contact and healing of the divisions that kept us apart.

After I moved, the contact got less and less, and her condition worsened and worsened. She was eventually moved to a nursing home. She spent the rest of her days cared for and safe. (Like many dementia patients she became a danger to herself- wandering, accidents, falls, etc)

My family, on Dad’s side, has always been somewhat of an enigma to me. The years of silence and separation left a gigantic void in me. I never had those conversations I had with my mom’s parents- about what it was like for my grandparents growing up, how they met, what was their wedding like.

I don’t know what my Grandma Greer’s favorite color was. I do know her hair turned white-as-snow by the time she was eighteen. But I don’t know what color it was before it turned. I know her mother lived with my Grandma towards the end of her life, but I’ve no idea what my great-grandma’s name was.

What was her favorite food? What were her siblings like? What were her regrets, dreams, desires, fears?

I’ll never know.

It occurred to me today that Grandma was one of the last links to my Dad. Even though she wasn’t really here, she was part of him and vice versa. It was like losing him all over again, in a way.

Too many years. Not nearly enough memories…

Rest in peace, Grandma. May the road rise up to meet you.