If the Shoe Fits | ongoing

00 | mary janes

// The past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it, or learn from it  //

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m a r y  j a n e s

ON MY SIXTH BIRTHDAY, my grandfather gifted me my first Disney movie set. I remember running down the stairs to greet him, my tiny feet carrying me as fast as they could, excitement pulsing through me as I envisioned all the goodies he brought for me on my special day. And when he handed me the box, I remember squealing and leaping into his arms, a place that I could never take for granted. He would spin me around, our laughter twinkling through the air.

And then he asked me to dance, claiming that I was a big girl now and how it was necessary to learn the rhythmic steps that came with growing up. We'd waltz around the living room, and thus began the annual tradition between my grandpa and I.

Every year, I would anticipate for the special day where my grandpa would present me with another Disney movie to add to my growing pile, and then take my hand to teach me a new dance. It was the one day that I constantly looked for; not because I'd be a year older, but because I knew my grandfather could never forget how much this meant to me.

My love for all things Disney only grew as years passed, as well as my appreciation for everything my grandfather did. He was my best friend and meant the world to me.

But life would always be like a bridge; the farther you venture out, the more dangerous it gets.

And so on that one extremely stormy night, just a few weeks before my 15th birthday, my world came crashing down: my 71 year old grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.

To say I was upset would be an understatement. The one man that never failed to make me laugh could barely recognize me, even on his better days. And that was the end of our tradition, the end of our Disney movie jokes, and the end of all the dances he would teach me. But after months of depression, I came to terms that enough was enough and that I'd take control of my life for once.

So I decided that although he could barely remember what he ate for breakfast, I would always remember him. The memories we created were worth more any disease that plagued my family's lives.

And so almost every Friday for the last 3 years, I would drive to the nursing home a couple town overs and visit him in hopes of him remembering who I was. And when I returned home after my time with him, I would curl up in my bed with a big bowl of popcorn, watching our favorite movies and reminiscing over everything we had done together.

This became my new tradition, one that completely enveloped me into a life that I had denied for so long. And although parts of me was grateful I could still see my grandfather breathing and well, there wasn't a day passed by when I didn't wish that these visits weren't necessary.

But after all, the only predictable thing about life was its unpredictability.