I remember when I was five years old, waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of our car starting. I peeked through the window to see my dad ushering my very pregnant mom into the passenger's seat. She was going into labor.

5-year-old me was confused and didn't understand what was happening and why my parents were leaving me. I remember my grandmother suddenly being at my side and telling me that my little brother would be here soon.

I remember making orange juice with my grandmother. She would call me into the kitchen, where she had everything set up, including a little stool for me to stand on because I was too small to reach the top of the counter. I would squeeze orange halves onto a little juicer while she sliced some more. The orange juice by itself was always too tangy for me, and I remember she would pour so much sugar into my cup until it was perfectly sweet.

I remember being 12 years old and getting my period for the first time and my grandmother being the only one home. When my mom was finally back from her errands, I remember her telling me that my grandmother had freaked out about it more than I had.

I remember how my grandmother would go for walks around our neighborhood.

I remember how she liked to hum as she did chores around the house.

I remember her voice when she sang me to sleep at night.

I remember when my grandmother started to forget.

My parents told me that she was sick. They said that the disease affected her brain and memory and I remember being sad about it. At the time, I didn't truly understand the severity of the disease.

I remember my grandmother forgetting words here and there, and needing help doing things around the house she used to have no trouble with.

I remember becoming annoyed when my grandmother got into the habit of asking the same question over and over and over and over again, even though I had just answered her for the third time.

I remember my parents getting frustrated when my grandmother's forgetfulness made our daily tasks more difficult.

I remember them telling me that it wasn't her fault. She was sick. Even so, and though I regret it now, I remember being relieved when my grandmother finally was moved out of my house and into a place where she could be cared for, with other people who were sick like her.

I remember going to visit my grandmother in her new home. My parents told me that she was bedridden because she wasn't able to do anything on her own. I remember seeing her and staring into a face that didn't know me.

My grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, a brain disorder that destroys both memory and basic thinking skills. It makes speaking difficult and can cause confusion in patients. Often, it leaves them incapable of caring for themselves at all. There still is no cure for this disease, but organizations such as the Alzheimer's Association are working to find one.

I remember my grandmother, but because of Alzheimer's, she doesn't remember me.