My grandma made the best cinnamon rolls. When I was a kid she made them every time we visited. I couldn’t wait to wake up, put one in the microwave, then butter up all the little pieces and, mmm. Fast forward a decade or so, and my own family moved back to the small town where my grandma still lived. Dementia was starting to set in. She moved from the house where she (and my late grandpa) had lived for years to the local assisted living. It was hard for our family to say good-bye to the house, and it was sad to think about how different Grandma might become as the dementia progressed. 

Just a few days after we moved into our new house, I picked up Grandma and brought her over. I told my mom I was going to get all the ingredients out and have Grandma make cinnamon rolls with me. Sometimes you hear how, even when there is a mental illness present, a brain can sometimes do or remember things that it has done so many times. 

I was sure this was going to work. 

So there we stood in the kitchen, flour, sugar, eggs, mixing bowls and the works waiting patiently on the countertop. I said, “Okay, Grandma! What first?” 

She took me off guard when she responded that she needed a recipe. Recipe? I had never seen her use a recipe for these cinnamon rolls, so how would we find the right one? After searching a few drawers in her room, I decided I better just do a Google search. I compared a few recipes, didn’t find too many differences, and picked one that seemed basic and sounded like it might come out like hers. Surely once we got into it she would remember. 

We mixed the dry ingredients, cracked the eggs, then the recipe instructed us to “Let the dough rise.” 

I asked Grandma how long we needed to do that? She said maybe a half hour, or two hours. Hmm. Okay, so we settled on an hour. Then we rolled the dough up in little hypnotizing-looking swirls, slathered the gooey cinnamon/brown sugar/butter concoction over the top of all the swirls, and put it in to bake.

We did some dishes, and after twenty minutes or so, the oven timer went off. Okay! It’s time! I pulled the piping pan out with my mitted hand and placed it on a flowery hot pad. They looked amazing. We had done it! After letting them cool for a few minutes, I couldn’t wait any longer. I took a fork and pressed it into the middle of a roll. 

If the fork would have been plastic, it surely would have snapped. Oh, no. I had been so sure Grandma would remember. I wondered if she was going to be so upset, feel so frustrated and discouraged that she couldn’t remember how to do something she had done perfectly for so many years. I lifted my eyes to look over at the beautiful, 100ish-pound, frail yet sure-footed, white-haired nonagenarian (that means someone in his or her nineties, for those of you who don’t want to take the time to Google it), bracing myself for her disappointed reaction. 

She thoughtfully looked over the pan, the fork, and squinted her eyes slightly. She calmly announced, “Well, I guess we won’t be taking those to the fair.” 

I don’t remember what exactly happened after that, but picturing her response in that moment simultaneously brings tears and a smile. 

Lately it seems like most things I plan or anticipate are not working out. The disappointment starts to get to me. Consistent disappointment – and just not feeling like I have any idea what the next day/week/year might be like – really threatens to wear on a person. So when you find yourself in a situation where the outcome is just not what you had planned, when you feel overwhelmed, jaded, uncertain, and on and on, I encourage you to picture my gentle, sweet grandmother (who would have been 102 years old on this very day, August 10th)! Remember she had a choice in how to react. And so do we.