Grief is an unpredictable journey, often arriving unannounced and without warning. It’s a roller coaster that can change life in an instant, especially when it involves losing someone who’s still here. For me, the hardest part has been coming to terms with my grandmother’s dementia, a diagnosis we received last year. At first, I brushed it off with denial, telling myself, “It’s normal, she’s at that age where her memory isn’t as sharp,” but the truth has become unavoidable: her memory is fading.
There are times when she remembers everything, but we’re starting to get to the point where she doesn’t remember my name. We’ve noticed she holds onto memories from the ’80s and ’90s with the most clarity. My grandma, Luz, has always been an entrepreneur. She decorated wedding receptions, crafted bouquets and even baked the wedding cakes. She made my mom’s wedding cake — which is deeply intertwined with how my parents met.
Their story is one for the books. My aunt, my mom’s sister, is married to one of my dad’s cousins, and at a cousin’s birthday party, my grandma made a Little Mermaid cake. There, she met my mom and joked that she had “a son perfect for her.” It was all in good fun, but here we are 28 years later, and my parents are still together. Matchmaker could easily be added to her long list of accomplishments.
I’ve had several birthday parties where my grandma was in charge of the cake. I’ll always treasure those memories—even if she once hired clowns, despite knowing I was terrified of them.
Grief has forced me to mourn the person she once was while accepting our current reality. Sometimes I ask “why,” wondering if I could’ve changed anything, but I try to stay positive. My grandma has lived a full life — 82 beautiful years to be exact. I have friends who didn’t make it to 30. It’s the storyteller in me that wishes I could change the ending for them.
Someone once said we don’t realize our parents and grandparents get old, and that couldn’t be more true. For a long time, I thought they’d stay the same — until their health changed and time made itself known. I remember when my mom and I rushed to visit my grandpa in Sonora in 2012 after being told, “This could be grandpa’s last summer with us.” It’s a hard message to hear when you’re more than 2,000 miles away — a six-hour flight or a three-day drive. I’d endure the insufferable desert heat of Mexico again just to see him one more time. He’s no longer with us, but that summer stays with me.
I promise this story isn’t a product placement for birthday cake, but one of my fondest memories from that trip is tied to one. It was my grandpa’s birthday, and my grandma had forgotten to cut him a slice—the irony of the birthday boy not getting the first piece. I offered to do it. I was around 15 and had no clue how to cut a cake properly, which resulted in a giant slice. I immediately asked if he wanted me to take some off, but he responded, “That’s okay, nena.” My grandma was less than thrilled, since he was on a strict diet, but it’s your birthday once a year — unless you’re someone who celebrates half-birthdays.
With the holidays approaching, I feel blue in knowing what’s slipping away, but I’ve made peace with the fact that we don’t get to stay forever. We can only make each moment count. Grief is difficult, but so are the memories we hold — and that’s where the beauty lies.