In October, I’m participating in the 2013 Walk to End Alzheimer’s. Please consider donating!
Elizabeth Hasler, better known as Betty. For most of you, that name is a name like any other. But for me, and all those who loved her, she was an angel departed too soon. She was my grandmother, and she died of alzheimer’s last year, on September 2nd. Although, if you are at all familiar with this disease, you know we lost her long before then. Not all at once, but like the raveling of a sweater thread. First it was barely noticeable, a missed name and a fleeting expression of confusion, easily attributed to the passing of time and trying to maintaining her brood—Seven children, seventeen grandchildren, and three great grandchildren.
I was her first granddaughter—the first daughter born to her eldest daughter. Not to brag or anything, but this kind of makes me special. The day I was born, Jennifer Elizabeth Kagarise, she made her way into my mom’s hospital room, her Irish porcelain cheeks flushed red from the mid-November air, arms overloaded with Straus’s department store bags. “There were just so many cute things. Pinks and purples, ribbons and lace, gingham dresses with white ruffled pinafores. I couldn’t decide, so I bought them all!” I was her little princess, and every moment there after, she always made me feel that way.
Camping was a way for the family to all come together, sitting around the campfire, with s’mores and childhood stories. I can’t remember the words, but I’ll never forget the sounds. Grandma’s laughter rose above everyone else’s, as they reminisced, finding the humor in even the everyday moments and horrors stories that come from a family of nine. In the morning, there was the sizzle of eggs and bacon on the black cast-iron skillet. After breakfast, Grandma and I sat on the abandoned campfire chairs and talked. She asked me about my third grade teacher, Mrs. Yaccavone, my best friends Megan and Chrissy, and which boys were chasing me on the playground. She responded in all the right ways when I told her of my eight-year-old times table woes and confided my dreams of becoming a solid gold dancer. I was important to her, and she made sure I felt it.
When I graduated from the six grade, yes, we had a graduation for six grade, my grandma came to the ceremony. For some odd reason, we had voted on the best of the best in our class. (Funniest, smartest, etc.) Of course, awkward years that they were for me, I didn’t stand a chance at winning any of them. I wasn’t surprised to see that my name was not listed among those “you most wish to be.” I can still hear her tsking and see her scratching away at the program. “It looks like they made a mistake at the printers.” When I looked down, she had crossed off Missy’s name under “Best looking,” and written “Jennifer Kagarise.” She didn’t stop there, I also received “smartest,” “friendliest,” and “most talented” by the time she was through. Oh how I wish I could have seen myself with her eyes.
I could go on and on with stories like these, as could her children, grandchildren, siblings, friends, and loved ones, but what I will remember most, is the way she greeted everyone when they came through the door. The exuberance that lit up her face and the contagiousness of her delight made every birthday, every celebration, and every random Tuesday better, and now she’s gone.
Elizabeth “Betty” Hasler died on September 2, 2012, and in those final years, there was so much suffering. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have your precious memories stolen one by one—riding a bicycle with no hands, shiny new shoes for your first day of kindergarten, and the smell of your father’s after shave. The sound of your mother’s voice and holding your babies in your arms for the first time. I don’t know what’s like to forget names and faces, to wonder where you are and what’s happening to everything and everyone you knew just a second ago.
In those final months, she no longer knew who I was, but I held tightly to the woman that I knew, and I hold her even tighter now. I sit on my front porch rocking chair and imagine her beside me, the cadence of her unmistakable laugh, the smiling of her Irish eyes. And as my son chases lightning bugs in the front yard, I remember summer days of long ago.
Elizabeth Hasler, better known as Betty. For most of you, that name is a name like any other. But for me, and all those who loved her, she was an angel departed too soon. She was my grandmother, and she died of alzheimer’s last year, on September 2nd. Although, if you are at all familiar with this disease, you know we lost her long before then. Not all at once, but like the raveling of a sweater thread. First it was barely noticeable, a missed name and a fleeting expression of confusion, easily attributed to the passing of time and trying to maintaining her brood—Seven children, seventeen grandchildren, and three great grandchildren.
I was her first granddaughter—the first daughter born to her eldest daughter. Not to brag or anything, but this kind of makes me special. The day I was born, Jennifer Elizabeth Kagarise, she made her way into my mom’s hospital room, her Irish porcelain cheeks flushed red from the mid-November air, arms overloaded with Straus’s department store bags. “There were just so many cute things. Pinks and purples, ribbons and lace, gingham dresses with white ruffled pinafores. I couldn’t decide, so I bought them all!” I was her little princess, and every moment there after, she always made me feel that way.
Camping was a way for the family to all come together, sitting around the campfire, with s’mores and childhood stories. I can’t remember the words, but I’ll never forget the sounds. Grandma’s laughter rose above everyone else’s, as they reminisced, finding the humor in even the everyday moments and horrors stories that come from a family of nine. In the morning, there was the sizzle of eggs and bacon on the black cast-iron skillet. After breakfast, Grandma and I sat on the abandoned campfire chairs and talked. She asked me about my third grade teacher, Mrs. Yaccavone, my best friends Megan and Chrissy, and which boys were chasing me on the playground. She responded in all the right ways when I told her of my eight-year-old times table woes and confided my dreams of becoming a solid gold dancer. I was important to her, and she made sure I felt it.
When I graduated from the six grade, yes, we had a graduation for six grade, my grandma came to the ceremony. For some odd reason, we had voted on the best of the best in our class. (Funniest, smartest, etc.) Of course, awkward years that they were for me, I didn’t stand a chance at winning any of them. I wasn’t surprised to see that my name was not listed among those “you most wish to be.” I can still hear her tsking and see her scratching away at the program. “It looks like they made a mistake at the printers.” When I looked down, she had crossed off Missy’s name under “Best looking,” and written “Jennifer Kagarise.” She didn’t stop there, I also received “smartest,” “friendliest,” and “most talented” by the time she was through. Oh how I wish I could have seen myself with her eyes.
I could go on and on with stories like these, as could her children, grandchildren, siblings, friends, and loved ones, but what I will remember most, is the way she greeted everyone when they came through the door. The exuberance that lit up her face and the contagiousness of her delight made every birthday, every celebration, and every random Tuesday better, and now she’s gone.
Elizabeth “Betty” Hasler died on September 2, 2012, and in those final years, there was so much suffering. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have your precious memories stolen one by one—riding a bicycle with no hands, shiny new shoes for your first day of kindergarten, and the smell of your father’s after shave. The sound of your mother’s voice and holding your babies in your arms for the first time. I don’t know what’s like to forget names and faces, to wonder where you are and what’s happening to everything and everyone you knew just a second ago.
In those final months, she no longer knew who I was, but I held tightly to the woman that I knew, and I hold her even tighter now. I sit on my front porch rocking chair and imagine her beside me, the cadence of her unmistakable laugh, the smiling of her Irish eyes. And as my son chases lightning bugs in the front yard, I remember summer days of long ago.