Claudette's Lovely Dementia

My great grandmother Claudette was well into her nineties when she developed something I called a "lovely dementia". Her frequent forays into the rosy world of her own creation seemed a delightful departure from a world that could be cold and cruel.

A true-blooded French Canadian, my great grandmother had immigrated to the United States in her early twenties from rural Quebec. Claudette spoke in a lilting, singsong accent and was prone to lapse back into her native French when she was nervous or excited. She had dark, smiling eyes and flawless, milky skin that seemed to defy age marks and wrinkles. She had a full head of the most marvelous white waves that she kept covered under her "house hat", which looked remarkably like a floral, felt-lined shower cap. I remember she always smelled sweet, like fresh sugar cookies and she hugged you as if she had not seen you in ages, no matter the frequency of your visits. She had special nicknames for everyone, short little French terms of endearment that would roll off her musical tongue with an obvious affection.

Claudette never raised her voice, delivered a harsh word or missed a day of church. She baked soft, heavenly loaves of white bread and harbored an addiction to Wilson’s boxed chocolates, which she playfully called “wishes”. I can remember sitting through visits with my siblings, waiting for that pivotal moment when she would suddenly pause the conversation, lean forward in her chair, wink at you and ask, “Madame, would you like a wish?”

She’d clap her hands with delight and jump up from her padded rocker. In a flash she’d be back, standing over you while you scrutinized the selections of crèmes and caramels, all the while watching you and grinning. She seemed as elated by the ritual as we children were. You had to pick wisely because one shot was all you got until the next visit, whether you liked your "wish" or not.

Aside from my ailing great grandfather's company, Claudette had two French poodles, Fefé and Paso. The Fefe had died by the time I was a teenager but Paso diligently followed at my grandmother's heels for years. He was her faithful servant and sole companion long after her husband passed away. In the end, Paso was blind, deaf and could barely get around, but she still spoke to him kindly, reaching down to lovingly caress his head.

My great grandmother had a penchant for puzzles, the challenging ones with thousands of pieces. We used to bring her a new one whenever we would visit; finding it nearly completed the next time around. Whenever we'd come there would be one of these spread out on the wide maple table. It must have been heartbreaking when her eyesight failed. She had to stop making the puzzles, but she kept every single one. Years after her death, my aunts opened her storage shed only to find hundreds of puzzles stacked to the ceiling of the narrow building.

The tough Canadian blood running through Claudette’s veins must have made her indelible to illness. I never remember her getting sick, no matter how hard or bleak the New England winters could be. When my father installed an above-ground pool, my great grandmother was often the very first one in and the last one still swimming when the autumn winds came rushing in. I recall watching her make her way up the driveway dressed in her suit and bright blue bathing cap, a towel draped over her arm. The sun had scarcely been up for ten minutes and though the water had to be freezing, she would lower herself into it without the slightest hesitation. My great grandmother loved that pool and those morning swims seemed to bring her a special peace. When she would float, her face tilted up into the sunlight, there was always a serene smile on her beautiful face.

When her frailty became a cause for concern, Claudette was moved into a local home for the elderly. She was such a spark compared to the aged and lethargic patients around her. She was regularly sighted, gliding through the halls in her wheelchair cheerily calling out a musical, “A-low!” to anyone within range. Dressed to the nines she'd float amongst the residents in the dining hall. She'd insist upon stopping at each and every table, greeting her fellow diners and inquiring politely, "and what are wee 'aving Princess?"

Sometimes Claudette would be waiting for you to arrive, anxious to tell you about the meal she was preparing that day for the Pope. A devoted catholic, she harbored a sincere adoration for his Eminence. On one particular visit she told me she was very busy. She explained, in a voice ripe with childish excitement, that she had to find the right shoes and make brownies for the Pope. Smiling secretly, Claudette beckoned me close and proceeded to tell me how much the Pope loved her brownies, as if she was imparting to me the most important trade secret known to mankind.

Claudette was sharp and tuned-in when she was lucid. She knew about what was happening in the world around her. She rarely spoke of such things though; more apt to focus her attention and concerns on her family, managing to steer clear of the pettiness and drama that plagued us at times. My grandmother seemed immune from so much of the bad and ugliness of life. Time spent in her presence could make you feel inoculated from that ugliness, if only for a little while. It was no wonder that in her lovely dementia the world rolled on happily, offering up countless opportunities for health and contentment. I consider it a gift from God that while the war raged on in the middle east, Claudette could still smile and hum an old French lullaby while she baked another batch of brownies for her Pope.