He used to sit in the garage like a jolly king on his throne. The aroma of freshly brewed Arabic tea and roasted sunflower seeds thick in the air. He had the brightest and most inviting of smiles. His cheeks were always flushed red. His beard, kept short and clean, reminded me of the wisdom he had. His eyes sparkled with constant gratitude. He loved being alive, and it showed. In that space, I felt like a kid again. I’d sit close next to him, dabbling in hours of Arabic stories, cracking lighthearted jokes, and exchanging valuable wisdom that sticks with me to this day. That garage wasn't just an ordinary place- it was our kingdom, and my grandfather was its heart, giving the dim room an invigorating sense of life.

My grandpa raised me. But he wasn’t just an ordinary grandpa; he was a second father figure. He was my closest friend. He was my favorite storyteller. His generous hands were never still: fixing the faulty old chairs we sat on, stirring a pot of tea, and offering me slices of the sweetest fruits without ever needing me to ask. I guess my grandpa always had a stubborn streak, but it was clouded by the way he’d chuckle after every tale, and how understanding and supportive he was. With him, I always felt safe. I always felt at home.

But over the last two years, something began to shift. At first, it was little things, spanning from misplacing tools to occasionally forgetting names, but the situation gradually began to worsen. Soon after would come the stories that didn’t add up, fueled by confusion that was often hard for me to try and clear. Anger began to erupt without warning, and I remember one afternoon when I gently corrected something he said. That day, I saw a side of him I never suspected to exist; my loving grandpa turned on me with rage I’d never seen before. His voice sharply amplifying his cutting words. I looked into his eyes- looking for those familiar eyes that were now clouded with a hostile sense of confusion and suspicion. Suspicion that made me feel like an outsider: like I wasn’t wanted. The reminder- that my grandpa, my best friend, was now approaching an old age of almost 80 years- hit me like a truck.

It’s hard to put into words the disgusting feeling that comes when you watch the person you love drift in and out of consciousness. One moment, we’re back in his garage, cracking jokes as he calls me “habibi” and hands me plates filled with delicious snacks, and the next, he’s accusing me of stealing things from him, convinced I’m a lying foreigner with mal intentions. My grandpa, the man who once taught me the importance of trust, now struggles to trust me.

Yet I still come back. Several times a week, I visit that house that’s so dear to me, ensuring I savor the moments I still have with my grandpa. He goes on telling his stories, and although he sometimes forgets the ending, we both end up laughing anyway. His past memories, still strongly intact, help maintain the connection I’ve built with him; they take me back to moments when life wasn’t yet so serious and he was still in better health. Every now and then, he has another one of his episodes that seemingly erupt from nowhere, and when I look into his eyes that are clouded with fury, I feel a great and unique type of pain. I’ve come to realize that the pain, however, is part of the love, and my love for Grandpa Muhammad will never fade, even if his memories do.

The journey with Alzheimer’s has been hard indeed, yet throughout all the yelling and fights he’s instigated, I’ve been reminded of what he taught me when I was a young little boy marveling at his tales and wisdom. Love isn’t always easy, and it sometimes means being there for someone even when they don’t recognize what you mean to them.

The disease is cruel, stealing your loved ones from you one day at a time. I aspire to go into medicine partly to make my grandpa proud, and to show him that his challenging journey to America wasn’t to go in vain. I hope he stays in a good mental state to witness me accomplish this feat. And I will continue to visit him, even when times are tough, because although the battle against dementia is rough, I won’t let it win without a fight.