Spinning the Thread that Connects Us

“I can't sleep! I CAN'T SLEEP!” It was one in the morning, and my grandfather wouldn't stop yelling.

“Would you like to walk around a bit?” I asked, bringing over his walker. He shook his head. Please, I silently begged. If I didn't distract him, he'd wake up the rest of my family.

Finally, he nodded, and I helped him out of his chair. Supporting him, we walked together through the living room, into the kitchen, and back, making a loop.

“Let's keep going,” I said, knowing that as soon as we stopped, he'd return to his endless screams. 

I glanced at the clock. There were still two hours left in my shift. Then, I'd wake up my brother and mom, and they'd watch over him until morning.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” I asked my grandfather.

“I CAN'T SLEEP!”

Okay, bad idea. “Why don't we walk into the kitchen again?” 

Was this how everyone with dementia was? Or, was he more disagreeable because he'd been temperamental all his life? He would only be here for a week before going into a home for elderly people with dementia, but it was taking a toll. I rubbed my eyes. We were on day five, and I could hardly stay awake. I was spending half the nights up, with my days blurring into a foggy haze of short naps, feeding him, and making sure he didn't fall.

“Would you like to listen to the orchestra music?” I asked. Maybe that would distract him.

“Yes,” he answered, direct and straightforward, as I'd learned he always was.

I put on the CD, titled Italian Concerto. My grandfather settled into his chair, eyes squinted as he stared straight ahead, engulfed in the music.

I gazed into his wrinkled face. I barely knew this man, my mother's father. I'd met him for the first time just a few years before. Part of me was terrified of him, after hearing years of stories about my mother's harsh childhood. But, I was also intrigued. Here was my grandfather, the youngest in a family that emigrated from Italy after World War One, that missing link between me and my heritage. I yearned for a connection to him, searching for the thread that held us together as granddaughter and grandfather. So far, I'd found nothing deeper than the lines on our family tree.

“I CAN'T SLEEP!” he bellowed over the music. Darn.

“Do you want to walk again?” 

“No.” 

What could I do? If my mom and brother didn't get enough sleep, they wouldn't be able to switch, and I couldn't last much longer. 

I glanced around. I could read to him; Mom said he liked poetry. Would that work? I looked up at the bookshelf and spotted a paper bag: my cotton. Maybe it could keep him distracted. I was told he'd once had an interest in growing plants.

I pulled the bag down, feeling his piercing gaze following my movements, and took out a little spindle and a cotton ball.

“I grew cotton last year in the garden,” I said, unsure if he understood, and attached the cotton to my spindle, a tool used for spinning fibers into yarn. I twisted a string of cotton around the spindle and began turning, adding more cotton to form a long strand. I continued turning the spindle. Pinch, turn. Pinch, turn. I peered up at my grandfather nervously. His eyes were fixated on my project. 

I spun cotton for two hours, until it was time to wake my mom and brother. My grandfather didn't mutter a word, just stared, completely engaged in my spinning.

As I headed upstairs to bed, my mom groggily asked if he'd like something to eat.

“Yes,” my grandfather answered. 

“Who would you like to get it for you?” she asked. “Me or Peter?”

As I neared the top of the staircase, I heard his answer. “Angela.” I didn't think he even knew my name.

As humans, we crave connections. But, connecting to people can be hard, even without the presence of a mental illness. I didn't believe I had anything in common with my grandfather, yet I found that piece in me that was from him, and we connected—our first and last time during his life, but it changed me. If you go out looking for a way to connect with someone, I believe you will find it. It turns out we have more in common with one another than we think.