Brich: Remembering Grandma on ‘The Longest Day’
This Sunday is the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. Across the country, it is also a day set aside to honor those affected by Alzheimer’s disease. Known as The Longest Day, the observance is a reminder of the long journey families face when a loved one begins to lose pieces of themselves to a disease that currently has no cure.
Alzheimer’s is often described as memory loss, but anyone who has watched a loved one battle the disease knows it is so much more than forgetting names or misplacing keys. It steals independence. It steals confidence. It steals routines, conversations, and connections. It changes family dynamics and places enormous emotional burdens on spouses, children, grandchildren, and caregivers. It is a disease that slowly takes away the things that make a person recognizable, while somehow leaving the love others feel for them untouched.
Alzheimer’s stole my grandma’s memory, her independence, and her ability to function. We watched as it took her away from us little by little, one small piece at a time.
At first, there were forgotten details and repeated stories. Then came the moments of confusion. Eventually, there were days when she could no longer do the things she had done effortlessly throughout her life.
The disease moved slowly, but relentlessly.
And then one night, it stole her away as she slept.
For years, I struggled with that reality. Alzheimer’s is cruel because it took so much before it finally took her life. It robbed us of conversations we still wanted to have. It robbed her of experiences she deserved to enjoy. It robbed future generations of getting to know the woman she truly was.
But as time has passed, I have realized there was one thing Alzheimer’s never had the power to steal, and that was our love for her.
That is why The Longest Day matters.
While Alzheimer’s may erase memories from the minds of those living with the disease, it cannot erase the memories carried by the people who love them. On this day, families gather, share stories, look through old photographs, and remember the people behind the diagnosis.
So on The Longest Day, we will once again remember for her.
We will remember the Saturday morning trips to the beauty shop to get her hair done. No matter what was happening those appointments mattered to her. Looking nice wasn’t vanity; it was part of who she was.
We will remember Sunday dinners after church, when we gathered around the table. Those dinners weren’t just about eating. They were about connection, belonging, and togetherness. Looking back now, those ordinary afternoons seem more special because of how effortlessly she brought everyone together.
We will remember the way she would laugh and yell, “Yoo hoo!” when she came through the door. It was impossible not to know she had arrived. Her voice carried warmth and happiness into every room. slight frown that crossed her face whenever Grandpa pushed her buttons and how she would simply say, “Now, Herb.” That was her version of fighting. There were no dramatic arguments, no raised voices. Just those two words that somehow communicated everything she needed to say.
We will remember being awakened every Christmas morning by her singing “Jingle Bells.” It was impossible to sleep in with Grandma around during the holidays, and look-ing back, we wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Her excitement made Christmas feel magical.
We will remember the countless hours she spent during Memorial Day week-ends placing flowers on every undecorated grave because, as she said, “Everyone deserved to be remembered.” She understood something many of us learn only later in life, that remembrance is one of the greatest gifts we can give another person. To be remembered means that your life mattered. It means your presence left a mark.
We will remember her purse, filled with brightly colored samples of Avon lip-sticks and what seemed like an endless supply of ketchup packets. Every grandmother has those little quirks that become legendary family stories. Those details may seem insignificant to outsiders, but to the people who loved her, they are treasures.
Most importantly, we will remember the kind, gentle soul who saw only the good in everything and everyone. In a world that often focuses on flaws and shortcomings, she chose kindness. She chose grace. She chose to believe the best about people.
Those are the things Alzheimer’s could never touch.changed her during her final years, but it did not define her life. It did not erase decades of love, laughter, hard work, faith, family traditions, and treasured memories. It did not erase the woman who helped shape the people we became.
That is one of the lessons The Longest Day teaches us. A person is not their diagnosis. They are the sum of their stories, relationships, values, and impact.
For families currently walking this difficult road, The Longest Day can be bittersweet. It is painful to watch someone you love slip away while they are still physically present. It is heartbreaking to become a stranger to someone who once knew everything about you. Yet there is comfort in remembering that even when memories fade, love remains.This Sunday, many families will participate in walks, fundraisers, support groups, and awareness events. Others will simply sit quietly and remember. Both are meaningful. Both honor those who have been affected by this devastating disease.
As the longest day of the year stretches across the calendar, may it also be a day of remembrance.
We remember not because those memories are all we have left, but because those memories are gifts that continue to shape us.
We remember the voices, the traditions, the laughter, the quirks, and the love.
We remember the people Alzheimer’s tried to take from us.
We remember because they can no longer remember for themselves.
After all, how could we ever forget someone who gave us so much to remember?
