At first, it was hard to say exactly what was slipping away. Staring into the eyes of my 84-year old grandmother, something had changed. It is no secret, like a thief in the night Alzheimer’s has been stealing away her memories for years, but no, this was something all together worse. Aptly nicknamed the “pit-pull in lipstick” the Myra Jo I grew up always had a twinkle in her eye and fiery disposition. At her foundation was the barely contained zest for adventure, an alert awareness of every small rock and creature underfoot, a true passion for life. My friends, this is something I took for wholly for granted and what I was completely unprepared for her (and I) to lose. This disease is a reverse aging of the most unwanted kind, stripping her down to a childlike state and leaving her trapped in a failing body. Every few weeks we are all getting to know a new Myra. She is thankfully incredibly sweet and innocent but she no longer is fueled by a fire to know more, be more, experience more. So as I tucked her into bed during my last visit, I knew it was the last time she would recognize me and surprisingly more heartbreaking, the last time I would recognize her.