The last day of school before winter break always meant one thing: Chuck E. Cheese.
It was tradition. My grandpa would pick up my siblings and me, and we’d spend the afternoon lost in flashing lights, the sound of machines spitting out tickets, and the smell of greasy pizza. Grandpa never rushed us. He’d sit at the table, watching with a smile as we ran back and forth, handing us more tokens without hesitation.
It felt like something that would last forever.
In 2019, my grandpa fell, the first sign that something was wrong. He had always been so steady, so sure of himself. But suddenly, he wasn’t.
The hospital visit marked the beginning of his memory fading. Names, dates, places and things he’d always remembered without hesitation started slipping away. At first, they were small things, easy to brush off. But then, it became clear: my grandpa would never be the same. Even my grandpa, the most stubborn person I’ve ever met, wasn’t immune to dementia.
It’s a sad thing, watching someone you love fade away. The man who once watched over my family like a guardian angel was suddenly the one who needed to be watched and guarded. I remember how his usually serious demeanor would break into a smile when he saw us in a joyful mood.
Beyond his love for us, his mind was truly remarkable.
My grandpa had always been like a human GPS. He knew Texas like the back of his hand, constantly traveling between Austin, Brady and Houston. He never relied on maps or technology, just his own memory. So when he got lost driving to my house on my sister’s birthday a few years ago, it was clear his dementia had progressed and he needed care.
The same man who could navigate the city by memory now needed help getting dressed and making food.
I know he’s not all gone, though.
Some days, he’s still himself—or at least what I remember “himself” to be. He’ll play golf on his mini set at home, joke around, and do little things that remind me of the grandpa I once knew. Other days, it’s like he isn’t even there, lost in a state of mind we can’t pull him out of.
The hardest part about thinking of these fond memories is knowing that the grandpa from them—my grandpa—will never return.
It’s something that has really affected me for the past five years. Grandpa had always been someone I leaned on when I was having a tough time. He could always make me laugh when I was sad. He made it clear that he was there for me, especially when my parents were mad at me.
Losing that person has been one of the hardest things to deal with—losing the person he was, knowing that he can’t be brought back.
But no matter how much he changes, I will never lose sight of how much I love him. He did so much for me, my family, and all the people around him. He means the world to me, just like I meant the world to him.
Still, I miss those Chuck E. Cheese trips and the way they made the world feel simple and safe. I miss that version of him and all the good and bad that came with it.
My grandpa and I haven’t gone to Chuck E. Cheese in years, and I doubt he remembers that we ever did. But I do.
I remember the sticky games, the way he looked at my family like we were his whole world, and how my face was covered with the biggest smile.
He probably couldn’t tell you what a Chuck E. Cheese is if you asked him, but I know deep down there’s a little part of him that cherishes those memories just as much as I do.
