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Remember Never to Forget the One That Got Away


When I realized that it was #WorldAlzheimersDay, I started to think about and really miss my grandfather. The name of this terrible disease will forever be equated with the ending of a man’s life in the least dignified way possible. So much good research has been done over the time since he passed away, and there is hope on the horizon. The years I spent watching the loss of my Papa Hy, however, were tough ones. Getting the poem I wrote for catharsis published was a gift that has had some positive outcomes.

Two decades ago, a man with whom I had been on a film festival committee approached me. He said that I was “interesting” and asked me if I wrote. It was the oddest conversation, and I was sure that it was a pick up line. I had always written, so I felt compelled to see where the conversation was going. Saying that I wrote was not something I often did.

Between the time that we had agreed to meet and our actual meeting, my grandfather had an angry outburst of physical aggression. He was in the hospital, but this was not the first time that things got bad, and my grandma could no longer heal from the wounds being inflicted on her both literally and figuratively. Papa Hy would have to go to a facility that could help support him.

After leaving the hospital that night, I was overcome by emotion. This kind, quiet man who let me drink too young, stay out too late and eat ice cream at midnight, especially Neapolitan, was quickly turning into a stranger of whom I was becoming quite terrified. The whole way home from the hospital, like a mantra, I repeated to myself as I drove, "Alzheimers, old timers, Alzheimer’s, old timers.” It calmed me, and it propelled me to pick up a pen.

When I arrived home, I was possessed. Stanzas filled sticky notes around my apartment. I was amalgamating the tale of all my grandfathers through my writing. It was just flowing. I didn’t plan on doing anything with it, as with all my writing before. The finished piece was the end, until it wasn’t.

When I went out with that man, Aaron Zevy, a few weeks later, he had asked me to bring some of my writing. I was reluctant but also intrigued, so I brought a few pieces including my poem about my grandfather that I titled Old Timers: The One That Got Away. The double meaning came from my paternal father’s love of fishing and the irony of its relation to the disease that was plaguing my maternal grandfather’s mind.

At dinner, the man sitting across from me looked at my writing. Then, he looked up at me and said,” I was prepared to give you a line to let you down easy, but I actually want to publish this.” That is certainly not your regular writer-publisher story. It turned out that he owned a small publishing house called Tumbleweed Press, now evolved to become the digital platform Tumble Books of which so many of our schools are members. A night out became a whole new adventure as a published author. It also ended up being my second book published, but that is a CRAZY story for another time. Today it’s about my Pop.

I was so proud to be published, but I was even more elated that something I wrote could help people. I went to different long-term care facilities to read my book and hare my story. I saw families and staff facing the same challenges as we were. One of the times that I looked out at the faces of the patients, my grandfather's looked back at me. He barely remembered me that night. Channeling the negative to the good really helped. My picture book even became part of an entry package that families would receive when they brought a love-one to one of the Central Park Lodges facilities. It was, as least, something I could give in honour of my grandfather.

This book also helped me. It’s not the best writing I’ve even done. It offers simple solutions to complicated problems and the font, once referred to as chicken scratch in a comment on Amazon, is not part of a perfect package. This book, instead, was a ticket to a world where I could help whole families begin a difficult conversation through my writing. That was worth so much to me, and I think it would have meant a lot to Papa Hy, too.

My Pop loved me. He loved all of his grandchildren- unconditionally. We still talk about him on long drives as he used to call out the name of every place we passed or repeat stories of his life as if he was still young. When they were not odd or embarrassing, his stories were endearing, and I even got to see new sides to him.

Watching my mother and her brothers help my grandfather and love him until his dying days was beautiful and commendable. My mother drove from Burlington to Toronto several days a week to visit him, shave him and clean him up . She was so devoted and tried to make his last years as humane and bearable as possible.

Today, on #WorldAlzheimersDay, I want to send my tribute to the families who have to endure so much when this terrible disease grips their loved ones. The toll it takes on so many aspects of a family and life can become draining and disheartening. I am hopeful for a better tomorrow and the promise it brings. I may never be able to bring back the one that got away, but I will hold my Pop’s love and his memory like a prized catch forever.


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