At some point in the late ’80’s I was riding with my grandfather in his Toyota in downtown Los Angeles. I have no idea where we were heading, but it must have been the weekend because the streets were fairly empty. At some point, he made a turn, and we headed down a wide street. A few blocks away, all lanes of traffic were heading toward us. We were on a one way street. He quickly noticed and turned around and changed course.

When, a decade later, his brain function had clearly faltered, I conflated the two. Now that I am middle-aged, as he was then, I think it’s likely it was just a normal accidental turn that I, to my own kids’ chagrin, could have made. We don’t always talk about diseases and illnesses of loved ones in ways that help me understand what they are going through. I watch it happen and understand that it is involuntary.

My maternal grandmother and paternal grandfather declined in health in the late ’90s and early ’00s, and while hers felt much quicker than his, they both were clear and definitive. No surprises, just a clear progression toward death. Nearly twenty years later, their spouses now talk to me about their own impending demise with a clearheadedness that is, for me, both scary and wonderful. They find no need to obfuscate the fact that it will arrive sooner rather than later. They just appreciate the time we have, whether it’s ten years away or somewhat less.

My own medical experiences have brought me to a place where death feels both inevitable and far away, and while I find some complacency with the fact that my life will end, I feel no rush to meet it. It will get here in time, and I hope that I use the time well.

When I spend time with my grandparents, there is a common theme among the experience: repeated words, stories, and questions.

My Grandpa tells me precisely the same story in 90% of our conversations, and for a while, I tried to gently point this out. “You love this story.” “You enjoy telling this.” “This is your favorite.” And so on. After a while, I realized that I was trying to change his behavior and stopped. Now I sit and smile and nod, or over the phone, provide the verbal prompts to let him continue.

With Grandma, it’s more often just the same question again and again. “Are you visiting soon?” every few minutes over the phone; or, “Are you staying the night?” when it’s in person. I just gently answer the same question repeatedly. (Typing this, I just now realized that years in retail gave me the experience of repeating an answer to a question as though it were the first time even when it’s the fiftieth that day.)

It helps my patience that my own memory is not reliable. The amount of information I take in on a given day, via humans and media, factual and fictive, is significant. And the access I have to information is inconceivable to my child-of-the-70s brain. If I need information, it is at my fingertips in seconds. On top of that, I’ve never felt strongly that I am remembering factual information accurately. If you say, “that’s not how it happened,” to a shared experience, I believe you and am happy to accept my own memories and allow for yours.

Without being very factual, things can be very true.

The fallibility of memory is well documented, and my own skepticism is widespread, so I don’t expect any story that anyone tells me is fact. Without being very factual, things can be very true. Rather than grimace when I get to hear a story for the third or thirtieth time, I ask for new information about it, or about another aspect of their lives. I find that I’m still getting new information if I pay attention..

When thinking about life, it becomes impossible to avoid thinking about the end, comparing it to the beginning. Acumen falters, then coordination, then speech, then bodily functions, then the failure of autonomic controls. We are dependent on others for complex functions, then basic functions, then…

It is a hell of a thing to experience, and for the loved ones witnessing to feel. It forces me to ask, What can I do?

I can offer the same unconditional love that I got from them. I can recognize that when I was a child, barely in control of my body and brain, learning to navigate the world and frequently failing, they were the ones who watched and patiently said, “That’s ok.”

Now that they are the ones who are repeating themselves, and forgetting things, and having difficulty with daily physical activity, it is my time to sit there patiently, watch carefully, be ready to help, and when they fail, to say, Thank you, I love you.

This was written in honor of Barbara Harris and Frank Leto, who died before I was capable of properly thanking them for everything. They knew I loved them, and due to their, and so many others’, love for me, I eventually learned to say it.