My mom lingers behind me as I grasp her hand. We take turns squeezing until our knuckles turn white. I am not sure if the action is for her comfort or for mine. My eyes stay trained to the unfortunate red, orange and green carpet, as I avoid giving pitiful stares to the fragile figures in wheelchairs roaming the halls in confusion.

The room 112 finally comes into my peripheral vision with ‘Danny Pounds’ typed out on a strip of paper taped underneath the room number. I step into the room releasing my mother’s hand out of nervousness. The last time I saw my grandpa, he was in his wheelchair eating homemade enchiladas at my grandma’s dinner table on a Sunday night. Today, I see him lying in an electronic, adjustable bed covered in several white blankets not long enough for his 6’3” body, causing his feet to peek out at the end of the bed.

I tear my eyes away from my grandpa at the sound of my grandma’s voice. She pushes her small frame out of the cushioned, wooden chair as she greets us. She shuffles to my mom, dad, brother and I with her arms outstretched to embrace us. I love my grandma’s hugs. I love how I have to crouch down to her height, how her hair sprayed hair tickles my neck, how she whispers how beautiful I am into my ear, and how our hugs last at minimum 10 seconds. Anyone who knows her, knows her as the sweetest lady they have ever met, and I have to agree.

After my grandma and I release our hold on each other, I turned to my grandpa. I look into his mischievous, blue eyes, and for the first time I do not see my grandpa. I know he is physically lying in front of me, but his eyes tell me he is absent. In the past when I visited him, his face would light up and a smile would stretch across his face, but today I see no recognition in his face. Regardless, I engulf him in a hug and tell him I love him. To my surprise, he tells me he loves me too, and I release the air I did not know I was holding in.

After the rest of my family greeted him, my mom tested the waters. She asked my grandpa if he knew who she was, and he nodded and said, “Dusti.” My mom asked if he knew who my little brother was, and he nodded and said, “Cole.” My mom then asked if he knew who I was, and he nodded, but did not say anything. She asked him if he knew my name, and he stared blankly at me. Tears began to drown my eyes as I lost hope in him recognizing me.

My grandpa forgetting my name broke my heart, not out of pity for myself but for him. In my earliest memories, I remember him always being there for me at every birthday, every basketball game, and every family event. He always told my mother his greatest fear was not getting to see his grandchildren grow up, and that is a hard pill to swallow knowing he could not remember my name.

As I stood before him, tears falling from my eyes I hear my grandma whisper, “Codi, don’t do that.” It broke her heart just as much as it broke mine. I bowed my head and shuffled out of the room. I paced up and down the hallway, until my dad stopped me in my tracks, and pulled me into a hug. He did not say anything, because I did not need words; I needed comfort.

I rejoined my family in room 112, and spent an hour or so catching up with my grandparents. When it was time to leave I embraced my grandma in a parting hug, and then I approached my grandpa. I leaned into hug him and said, “I love you.” He replied, “I love you too.” That was all I needed to be temporarily at peace with his current state.

Every time I visit him, I know he doesn’t remember who I am, but he never neglects the words, I love you, and for that I am thankful. I am thankful he is still breathing, I am thankful for the time I get to spend with him, and I am thankful for the example he has set for my family. He has been the most loyal and amazing husband to my grandma, the toughest father/father-in-law to my mom and dad, and the most involved grandpa to my brothers and me. When the time comes for him to pass, I refuse to remember him as a fragile figure in a bed. I will remember him as he was before– a loving, mischievous spirit with a strong dedication to his family.