A fading memory
Slowly, my grandma forgot everything, except for one single word.
Charme and Warner Hughes at a castle in Ronda, Spain in 1998. Charme and Warner loved to take extended trips to Europe where they stayed in hostels or slept on trains, trying to soak as much of foreign places as they could. // Photo sourced by Ravi Regan-Hughes
Written Ravi Regan-Hughes
One day in 2005 my dad, Robert, got a call from his mom, Charme. She asked him a series of questions and the call concluded. Minutes later, his phone rang again.
“She called back within five minutes, and she asked me the exact same series of questions,” my dad said. “As if we hadn’t even had a conversation.”
This was the first obvious sign of her Alzheimer’s disease he can recall.
Alzheimer’s is a progressive disease that deteriorates a person’s memory, thinking abilities and eventually the most basic functions of the human body, like swallowing or breathing.
“It was kind of a gradual, steady decline until the functions of her body weren’t operating,” my dad said.
I remember things the same way. It was so gradual that I almost couldn’t notice it. Day to day, my grandma seemed the same until I realized another part of her memory had become inaccessible. Sometimes I wish I could recall my grandmother before Alzheimer’s, but by the time of her diagnosis, I was only 6 years old.
Thankfully, my parents and grandpa have shared bits and pieces about her life with me over the years. In Charme’s heyday, she was an athlete and social butterfly.
She graduated from the University of Washington in the mid-1940s, where she earned an international studies degree and teaching certificate. She was also named an honorary member of the Alpha Omicron Pi sorority after her sister, Clinta Campbell, an AOPi sorority sister, died in training during World War II. A number of those sisters became longtime friends.
She loved skiing, playing tennis and being outdoors in her free time. In 1954, she met my grandpa at a church in Seattle. My grandpa Warner was living in San Francisco and just happened to be on a business trip that weekend.
“I can remember seeing her at Third Church, which is in the University District — looks like any other church,” my grandpa said. “She was standing on some steps talking to a bunch of guys who were trying to work out what they were going to do that afternoon.”
Three months later, they were married.
Charme Campbell (now Hughes) and Warner Hughes walking down the aisle at Fauntleroy Church in West Seattle on Oct. 23, 1954. After their wedding, they took a road trip down the west coast to San Francisco to live together. // Photo sourced by Ravi Regan-Hughes
“Was it fast?” My grandpa laughed. “It was so fast, it was unbelievable — it was amazing that she took me up on it.”
They then built a family together in Walnut Creek, California, with my dad and his sister, Patti. Later, they moved to St. Louis for my grandpa’s work. Eventually, he retired early, and with their children off living their own lives — they traveled.
In the mid-1980s, they bought a motor home which they used to travel throughout the United States. They also took international trips, visiting Spain, France, Italy, Greece, Egypt and other countries through the years. By the mid-1990s, it was time to settle back down in Washington, where they met.
My grandpa is now 95, and still has a sharp memory of his old days with Charme. It’s a beautiful thing that he can remember meeting her so vividly. He remembers much more of his times traveling with her than he does of her Alzheimer’s.
She was the sweetest old lady imaginable; she had white-grey hair, bright blue eyes, a nearly permanent smile and sun-kissed skin from decades of tanning. Sometimes, she would blow kisses to complete strangers if they gave her a wave.
In 2007, her condition worsened. To make life more complicated, my grandparents’ apartment complex began remodeling units. With my grandpa already in his mid-80s, it was unclear how long he could manage her condition on his own. Additionally, my parents were looking to move in the near future.
So, we all ended up moving into a new home together.
Practical, multi-generational living is not very common in the United States. By definition, these are households with multiple adult age groups. In 2007, the percentage of the population living with two or more adult generations was roughly 12%, according to Pew Research Center.
I was nine when we all moved in together. I remember having friends over and being asked why my grandparents lived with me. Even at that age, I sensed the question came off as judgmental; hinting that my living situation was not “normal.” This didn’t bother me, but it made me aware of the unique conditions of multi-generational living.
21-year-old Charme Campbell in her service photo for the Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service (WAVES) division of the Navy at the tail end of World War II. Franklin Roosevelt signed the Navy Women’s Reserve Act into law in 1942, which created WAVES. // Photo sourced by Ravi Regan-Hughes
Getting to know my grandma Charme through the context of her disease was strange. Most of my memories of her are of repeated phrases, her smile and her quiet shuffling through the house.
When I was young and naive about her disease, our conversations were confusing. ‘That’s just grandma,’ I thought.
It seemed like the information would linger in her mind, but not stick and eventually fade away. But sometimes, it felt like she was still aware of things going on.
My grandpa remembers her Alzheimer’s progression as slow, and then one day you notice she had lost some ability.
“She got so she couldn’t play cards, for example,” my grandpa said. “And she’d be so nice because she’d sit there and watch me and watch my cards, and never a complaint.”
Although she could only say a handful of words at the end of her life, she could still imply things with her tone and facial expression. She would often come into the kitchen, see what my mom was cooking and say “wow!” with a grin. That’s all she could say at times, and that’s all it took to show how impressed she was.
I don’t remember much of grandma Charme before her diagnosis, but I’m grateful for the time I had with her. Even when she could only say one word, “right,” we could still have full conversations.
It was such a simple, perfect response to anything. I would go on and on about a sporting event, and she would turn to me with the brightest eyes and kindest smile, and just say “right.”
Charme died on Dec. 9, 2013, at the age of 89 in our home in Kirkland, Washington. When she died, I didn’t cry. I felt relieved that she was free from the disease and suffering.
Today, reflecting on the little moments we shared brings tears to my eyes. I’ll forever cherish those moments of all of us under one roof, all the way until the very last “right.”