In the last months of her life, my grandmother started mentioning an unfamiliar name: Tony. At first, the name appeared in brief inquiries, like I wonder how Tony is or I wonder where Tony is. I didn’t think much of it. She was in the late stages of Alzheimer’s, and names had been slipping off her tongue for quite some time.
The remarks eventually turned into questions she wanted answers to: Did Tony ever get married? Did Tony have kids? Did Tony… Did Tony… Did Tony…? I’d respond truthfully and tell her that I didn’t know who Tony was. But the more her illness progressed, causing her to forget even my name, the more she held onto this other name. When she’d wake up in the middle of the night to go to the restroom, she’d often pace throughout the house, unable to find it. For a long time, I’d wake up and walk her there, then back to her room and she’d fall back to sleep.
When she stopped recognizing me and I’d appear from my room, she wouldn’t know who I was or where she was. She’d look out the window, see that it was dark, and panic. Call Tony! Tell Tony to come and get me! I had travelled thousands of miles to help care for her and, in return, I was being told to call someone else, someone I had never heard of–a stranger to me, a comfort to her.
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