This past Tuesday I set off to central Wisconsin on what began as little more than one more thing on this week’s “to-do list.”  In between a couple of very important lunches, a meeting with the program director of what might become my new radio home and watching the pivotal SEC basketball game between Florida and Tennessee was squeezing in a quick trip to see my wife’s grandfather.  About six months ago, he moved into a new home and being that it was his 88th birthday, we were long overdue for a visit.

That new home he’s in isn’t a 3500 square foot dream house he finally built for himself and my wife’s grandmother.  Nor is it one of those fancy, multi-level townhomes you see popping up everywhere loaded with more amenities than you would ever think of including on your own. 

No, my wife’s grandfather now makes his home in the Alzheimer’s ward of a nursing home sharing a room with a gentlemen named Bob.

Alzheimer’s is something I always believed I understood.  In its most simplistic terms, the disease affects one’s ability to remember things like family members, the day of the week and even your own name.  Ultimately, the disease is fatal.  But suggesting Alzheimer’s affects memory and leaving it at that is marginalizing the disease in a profound and wholly shortsighted way.  I should know, because that’s what I’ve done for years. 

Little did I know how this trip was about to become the education of a lifetime.

As we drove down the Interstate, our older daughter was mesmerized with the beautiful rolling hills of western Wisconsin, covered from a fresh snowfall the night before.  Our 10-month old engaged in her favorite car-ride activity:  Sleeping.  My wife relaxed, alternating between reading a magazine and listening to a talk show on the radio.  And me, although I was happy to be going there I simply couldn’t shake the thought of things I needed to do that were being put on hold.  Things I believed were much higher up the priority list than driving 160 miles for a 30-minute visit.

My wife’s grandfather, Jack, was a marine in World War II.  I met him 18 years ago and he was as tough and wiry then as I expect he was when he was fighting the Japanese in the south Pacific.  Engaging, smart, funny and warm, he is the kind of person who quietly slips into a room but his presence is always felt. 

His wife, Ann, though not a marine might as well have been one.  She, too, is tough.  But she’s also his equal in smarts, warmth and humor.  In all of minute one of day one when I first met both of them, they took me in and treated me like I was their own grandson. 

Their love, warmth and generosity have never been lost on me because I lost all of my own grandparents far too early. 

After reaching our exit, we followed my mother-in-law and Ann down a one-lane road that wound its way up and down steep hills and along frozen rivers ultimately arriving at a rather bleak, rundown red-brick town of just over 800 residents.  A couple of left turns, a right and one more left and there it was, the nursing home.

After dropping off my wife and daughters I found a parking space, grabbed the birthday cake from my mother-in-law and made my way to the door. 

When entering, off to your left you notice two wide-open main corridors with residents and nurses moving about freely.  A large, adjacent dining room has about 20 men and women playing bingo. 

And then off to your right you see two large, pale blue, rather ominous steel doors.  The doors are closed.  They’re closed because behind them is the Alzheimer’s wing.

When I passed through those doors, it might as well have been going through a portal to another world.  With every step I took I was alternately saddened and scared as my eyes darted into each room’s open door or fixating on someone as he/she walked or wheeled by me.

Just moments earlier all those other terribly important things weighing on my mind that were being put on hold – they were no where to be found.

A little further down the hall I finally saw Jack.  He was sitting at a table in what amounted to a dining /recreation room eating lunch and wearing a nice pair of pants, a sweatshirt and, ever the sports fan, a knit cap of his beloved Cleveland B rowns.  When he looked at me, he really didn’t have any idea who I was as he gave me a firm handshake.  And yet, his eyes seemed to have such clarity which merely echoed the warm smile he offered as he said “well, hello there young man.” 

You see, that’s how Jack has always greeted me.  I felt such sadness to realize though his words and warm demeanor hadn’t changed, his mind was not the same.

Jack has always loved children and they’ve loved him right back.  When he saw my older daughter, she gave him a kiss and he immediately lit up.  She didn’t understand the gravity of the situation but it didn’t matter; she made him smile and he did the same for her.

As we gathered around the table, now adorned with a huge birthday cake, ice cream, plates and silverware, it all began to seem perfectly normal.  But as I looked around the room, what I witnessed was as sobering as anything I’ve ever seen in my entire life. 

There was the gentleman who walked around the room taking steps no more than six inches at a time, staring straight ahead until he got up next to me.  He then looked directly into my eyes as if he thought he knew me.  I smiled and said hello.  He neither blinked nor said a word; he simply moved on. 

It was a moment that sent me back to the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.  But this wasn’t a movie, and there wasn’t any humor.

There were the four women resting, or sleeping, in chairs near the television.  Every chair was covered with towels and a liner similar to what parents use when changing the diapers on their babies. 

A table near one of the windows had one gentleman sitting silently, holding his head in hands for minutes on end.  Another table found several folks eating with the help of the nurses.

And finally, there was the woman in the wheelchair moving about the room and asking every individual she came upon, “what am I supposed to do now?” 

I helped serve cake and ice cream to everyone who was allowed to have some.  The only reaction I heard was when a nurse asked the gentleman who previously was holding his head in his hands if he liked the cake.  He said “damn right I do!” 

As our party came to a close, trying to digest all of what I saw, heard and felt was impossible. 

These are people who, if not all of them certainly most of them, have sons, daughters, wives and husbands no different than anybody else.  At one point in their lives they had active, vibrant minds.  Whether they laughed or cried, smiled or frowned, there was someone close to them, someone who loved them; a person able to comfort or console them in a way only a family member can do.

Now, they have their rooms, their roommate, walks down the hall, the occasional music brought in to entertain, group projects… all with the help of nurses and/or volunteers.  Family members visit, but it’s the smallest of moments in a 24 hour day.

Jack has spent more than 60 years with Ann.  They grew up together, got married, lived through the war on opposite sides of the globe, raised a family, went to church, went dancing, laughed, argued, traveled; a rich, full life.  Seeing him this week, so much seemed so normal: his smile, his voice, his handshake and his humor. 

But it wasn’t normal.  It was the furthest thing from normal.

He no longer has Ann with him.  He no longer has his favorite chair to relax in.  He no longer has his own television to watch his favorite programs on.  He no longer has so many who love him no further away than a shout across the room.  And it’s that way with every single person in the Alzheimer’s wing of that nursing home.

I can’t fathom the emptiness all of them feel, or if they feel anything at all.  

As I got ready to leave, I put my arm around Jack and shook his hand.  He looked at me, smiled and said “now, who are you?” 

Never again will I view visiting him as squeezing it into my schedule.  At the end of the day – at the end of our lives – it’s not the money we have, the house we live in, the car we drive or how important we believe we are.  It’s family. 

I don’t know if Jack will ever again recognize Ann, his kids, my wife, my daughters, me or anyone else in our family.  But we are his family. 

He may not remember us, but we must always remember him.