They forget. We remember.

My grandpa had a fall. He broke his hip and he is bleeding in three areas of his brain. He will never walk again. He spent the week in the hospital and came home this weekend. My grandma, however, doesn't remember who he is. Next year they will have been married 70 years and when she is told that my grandpa is her husband she claims she isn't married.

How quickly Alzheimer's robs us of our identities: my grandpa is no longer a husband, my mother is no longer a daughter and I am no longer a granddaughter. How slowly this disease has crept into my grandma's brain and taken us away from her; her grandkids were the first to go, her kids followed one by one, but grandpa was always her husband. I always felt she couldn't live without him, that they would follow in the manner of the elderly couple from "The Notebook," dying within minutes of each other.

My father has always told me that having kids has been the greatest accomplishment of his life. I am incredibly flattered by this statement seeing as my dad has done some amazing things and is one of the most intelligent men I know, but I digress. As someone who cannot wait to one day have a loving husband (who will hopefully also take care of me once I am old and claimed by Alzheimers) and children I can't even imagine not knowing them as I gradually fall into old age. We are a part of who she is and we are here because of her.

I have three black and white photographs that were taken of my grandparents just after they were married. In one they sit on the lawn and my grandma is looking at my grandpa and laughing. Although the photo is black and white you can see the sun spilling into the frame; a second hand illumination that captures a moment of pure happiness and love. They are beautiful.