My eyes swim with tears that threaten to spill over as I look at Papa’s blank, pale blue eyes that remain dry themselves. My sister has just finished reading ‘The Dance’ by Richard Paul Evans, and my mom turns to face her father who doesn't even remember reading the same book the day before. “You were that dad for me,” she whispers, referring to the book. “Really?” he replies, smiling with childlike obliviance. My mom nods, crying, and I clench my fists until my fingers turn white from loss of blood flow. How can you actually have lost someone in your life when they are still living? Well, I’ve lost my grandfather to Alzheimer’s disease. Sometimes he says funny things that don’t make sense, like “You are a pretty pickle” or “I am the King of Pop-tarts” after an elaborate TV commercial. Even though I’ll laugh, my heart pangs with his loss of sense. I often wonder what he’d think if he were looking down on himself from the heavens where he is the same person my mom knew growing up. Maybe he’d be angry, at his forgotten dignity. Maybe he’d feel like his family had left him in the time he needed us most, whenever he’s left alone in his house with the blaring television showing "House Hunters" or any other real estate show. Deep in my head I know he isn’t looking down on us, but that doesn’t stop my thinking. This weekend he is staying at a nursing home that really is nice, but I have never hated a place more. His wife, my Nana, is going to my great grandmother’s 100th birthday party in another state- but obviously he is in no position to accompany her. He can barely walk since he doesn’t remember how to move his legs, and usually shuffles them uselessly on the tile floor. Yesterday was my first time visiting him. He had been dropped off that very morning and was quite enjoying it. He had his own room, with two armchairs and a bed that could sensor change in pressure and would alarm the main desk if he got out of bed in the night. There were many activities for him to attend, and when we came he was sitting around a circular table where there was a bag of popcorn and a mini can of soda with a small straw sticking out of it. “Hey Papa,” my mom smiled, hugging him. I hugged him next and his shaking arms gathered around me, his arthritic fingers stroking my shoulder. “I love you,” I murmured. My mom offered him the popcorn and his face lit up as he crunched down on the buttery heated kernels. As we took him back to his bedroom, I couldn't help but glance into the other dim rooms where sick, lonely, elderly people lay still in their beds with oddly colored faces and often an oxygen machine by their side. They were all friendly, but I still felt awful. What was going on in this place? I always thought as a grandma I’d live joyously, walking and talking until the very day I'd die. I always thought that I’d be well enough to see my grandchildren and play with them, despite graying hair and difficulty walking. But those grandparents don't live here, in the nursing home. These are the people that have the most severe of mental diseases such as Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s disease, or in most cases difficulty with the physical side of their bodies. Today when we went to visit Papa, he was at the same table, now sporting a puzzle, and he was talking to a man in a wheelchair. Papa was muttering utter nonsense, obviously speaking to the elderly man in front of him. “God loves all of his children,” the other man breathed heavily in response. And then the world spun for me, as I unconsciously thought of the life I may live so many years in the future. I may be just like the people I saw, in heavily equipped wheelchairs with a clear tube running under my nose, or speaking words unrelatable to each other. And that’s when it hits me. This is the life I am given, and maybe when I’m very old, I won't be in good condition. But for now, with my completely healthy body, I must live for all of those people who can not do the things their hearts most desire. I must wake up every morning with the light shining through my window and jump out of bed. I must run through big, grassy fields and feel the sun on my face and the wind blowing my hair back so it brushes my shoulders. I must sing and prance around, enjoying life to the fullest. And perhaps someday I’ll be dancing and someone very aged will be watching out of their window and feel as if they are dancing too.