Fragile.

Two weeks ago, I was talking to a friend about how amazing the human body is. The professor was talking about the body’s compensatory mechanisms for different conditions. And indeed, I do find the human body amazing for being able to do all of that.

But all of that changed when I went to Antipolo last Sunday to visit my grandmother and celebrate a few birthday parties at the same time. I entered my grandmother’s room and greeted her with a smile. As usual, I told her my name to help her remember who I was. And there she was, smiling back at me with a smile she would have given anyone who passed her way on the street. I was surprised. It was something I didn’t expect. To me, it looked like a smile without any recognition at all: a blank smile.

Dementia indeed is such a cruel disease. It not only takes a part of your memory but also takes a part of you altogether. It’s been years since my grandmother started showing symptoms, so it’s pretty obvious that she’s in such a late stage by now. And this disease doesn’t stop progressing until eventually…

But that smile, that smile she gave me, it was so painful to look at. It’s been ages since I last saw her and I had to see her like that: so helpless and so fragile. Then my thoughts shifted. I suddenly realized how the human body can be both ends of a spectrum: so strong and sturdy and yet so weak and fragile. Though it comes with age, it’s still scary to think that such a disease chooses no one.

I turned her to her sides every now and then just so I could check up on her. I tried to avoid looking at her face just so I won’t have to see that smile again. But I’m a nurse and I’ve been trained to look at my patients in their eyes. I saw that even her eyes have turned grey. And I can still remember how she used to smile with her eyes whenever she would come over our house and bring some food for dinner. She rarely grinned because she was always prim and proper. So she only smiled by curling her lips and then her eyes would do the grin for her. My mom got that from her.

It took me a lot of effort and courage to pull myself together before I managed to enter her room again to say goodbye. Again, I told her my name, and she gave me that smile. I held her hand in mine the way she used to hold mine when she fetched me from school when I was young. I didn’t want to let go but I know better. So I bent over and kissed her forehead, stoked her hair and did my best to give her the warmest smile I could give.

I never realized how painful silence can be. She didn’t say a thing. She remained on her bed, simply looking at everyone who came to her. And it was then that I realized that you don’t need to words to send the message. That sometimes, the greatest message of all is not uttered but unspoken.