Always 'ooh-wah'

Everyone has that one person – at least one – who leaves an impact on you that will be forever imprinted on your soul. For me, that person is my grandfather; my “Papa.”

Rewinding back as far as my memory can take me, almost every moment that’s there seems to include him. As “Papa’s girl,” I wouldn’t have it any other way. Having had the privilege to know all of my great-grandparents on my mother’s side and see – three of four of them – succumb to Alzheimer’s or a form of dementia, in the back of my mind, I always worried that Papa, too, would suffer the same fate. And, unfortunately, I was right.

For a while, hearing the official diagnosis was something I just couldn’t stomach. Why, why, oh why, would someone so kind and loving that’s led such an incredible life not be able to remember and share those moments he worked so hard to experience? It’s not fair. He’s a veteran – a paratrooper. He’s a craftsman that’s built many of the homes throughout central Massachusetts. He’s an incredible cook that “feels” what ingredients meals need when he cooks. He’s a painter whose work decorates the walls of most of our family’s homes. He’s a bowler whose candlepin records have earned him a spot in the Bowling Hall of Fame in Springfield. And he’s my grandfather.

The hardest part – probably even more so for him – was the moment he looked at me and couldn’t remember my name. Outwardly, I gulped and did everything in my power to suppress the tears welling up in my eyes as I tried not to bring to much attention to the slip. Inwardly, I was screaming, shaking and punching holes in walls. He looked at me and told me he was sorry he was an idiot because he “knew I was someone important to him,” but he just couldn’t remember my name. I reassured him as best as I possibly could that I knew he couldn’t help it and that he definitely wasn’t an “idiot.” Though he seems to have accepted circumstances a little more – as anyone possibly can – and humbly replies “he’s just kidding” whenever he forgets something mid-sentence as a defense mechanism, his memory has continued to progressively deteriorate. Through it all, one thing that’s comforted me as it always has is: “ooh-wah.”

My grandfather doesn’t say, “I love you.” It’s not because he doesn’t feel it or mean it, he just doesn’t really know how. His parents never said it to him. And as a grown man, it was a hard thing to start doing. As a child, I must have noticed this. One day, as he hugged me goodbye, he made the noise he always makes when he’d hug me tight: “ooh-wah.” Hearing this, I can still remember saying it back to him. When he asked why I responded with that, I told him: “Papa, that’s the sound a hug makes.” He just smiled. Each and every time we’d part, we’d exchange “ooh-wahs.” After a while, it caught on and the majority of family started to exchange the sentiment.

To this day, ooh-wah is something that still resonates. Even on a day when Papa is especially confused or frustrated, the one thing he always remembers to say when he’s leaving is ooh-wah. It’s hard and it will keep getting harder accepting this new reality of a life that’s deteriorating before our eyes, but today, yesterday, and for years to come, there will always be ooh-wah.