Sometime in the early 2000s, while I was in the middle of my Master's Program at the University of Southern California, I was informed that my grandmother was unwell. I vividly remember the moment it happened. I had spent the day with my father at California's UCLA Medical Center, waiting, as my grandmother went through a barrage of tests. We hoped the doctors would find out what was going on and tell us they could fix the problem. After what seemed like an eternity, a doctor appeared and delivered two unexpected, distressing pieces of news. First, that my grandmother had Alzheimer's Disease, and second, that "There was no treatment for what she was going through."

“How could this be happening? Why was this happening to my grandmother who was so full of life?”

It was the first time my father and I had heard about the disease. It was a lot to take in. We felt lost. My mind was racing with so many questions. How could someone so energetic and hardworking, someone who traveled extensively with relentless curiosity and desire to explore places and meet people, how could someone like this be afflicted with a bizarre and cruel disease that will gradually erase her thousands, no, millions of memories of amazing moments she experienced, of the countless people she met, maybe even of her very identity? Perhaps Alzheimer's will slowly wipe away my grandmother's recollections of the time she spent with me. Would she forget me altogether one day?

Life's tricky like that, isn't it? One moment we feel totally in control, the next, absolutely vulnerable.

I remember the first time symptoms started showing. It happened long before she was diagnosed, while we were on an Alaskan cruise one summer. I was sharing a room with her on the cruise ship. Against character, she was acting up, throwing tantrums, and being moody. It got to a point when I was so exhausted from her erratic behavior that I locked myself up in the toilet and cried. I felt horrible for reacting this way because of her, like some ungrateful granddaughter. So I didn't tell anyone about what was happening in the moments I spent alone with my grandmother. But she was behaving this way with others in my family too. We all assumed she was simply upset about something, and she didn't want to talk about it. Blaming her behavior on a sickness was the furthest from our minds.

I graduated in 2003 and immediately began working for my father's company. While this new chapter of my life was unfolding, so too was the story of my grandmother's Alzheimer's. After the diagnosis, my father had to break the news to her, which would prove to be the first of many traumatic moments. He then went straight into caretaker mode, hiring experienced nurses and medical professionals to ensure she had around-the-clock help. Over the next years, a neurologist from UCLA paid regular visits to monitor her condition as the disease advanced. But the hard truth we had to face was that the only impact of the medical treatments was to slow down the progression of the disease. It was buying more time in a transaction that guaranteed a non-negotiable outcome. But every extra second with my grandmother would be worth the price.

For me, my grandmother's Alzheimer's journey was impactful in various ways. Seeing her health deteriorate daily was a terrible thing to witness. Days spent sitting by her side listening to her tell me stories of her life (stories that reminded me of just how remarkable this woman is) turned into nights of her being frustrated and angry, demanding to know who I was and what I was doing in her room! When I visited, I would lay beside her, hold her hands, and whisper in her ears, reminding her of all our experiences together, always asking if she remembered any of them. I spoke every word in the hope that she did remember, or that in case she didn't, my telling her would jog her memory. As she got worse, a new hope surfaced - probably the most futile type of hope experienced by those losing a loved one to Alzheimer's. Each time I saw my grandmother, I wished that her old pre-Alzheimer self would somehow, suddenly, miraculously reappear along with all her memories. And just like that, her Alzheimer's would be a fast fading memory soon to be forgotten altogether. This didn't happen, of course. And yet, each time, this cruel hope surfaced. And each time when I had to face the truth of her worsening condition, it felt as if a knife ripped through my heart.

I was so sad. And in my depths of sadness, I wondered how my grandmother might be feeling. After all, she was the one going through the disease. She was the one whose beautiful tapestry of life was unraveling into loose, tangled, frayed threads. For the first time ever, I felt totally helpless. To make matters worse, in the final stages of her condition, I was eight months pregnant with my first child. It was tough keeping myself together. All I could do was ensure she got the best help possible while being mindful of my own heath and that of my unborn child.

In February 2009, my beautiful, strong, loving grandmother left us. Her absence created a far bigger void in my life than I imagined. But I also felt relief, which initially left me guilt-ridden. But I soon realized two things - I had to forgive myself because I did the best I could under the circumstances, and, her death meant the end of an especially wicked suffering.

Sometimes, we experience situations that reflect our lives back to us a little differently. These experiences force deep contemplation and open our minds to alternative perspectives. My grandmother's Alzheimer's was one such experience. Harrowing as it was, my grieving process showed me that my grandmother had left me a beautiful gift in this final chapter of her life. In allowing me the privilege of witnessing and participating in her journey with Alzheimer's Disease, she showed me that I possessed greater strength than I imagined. She also taught me that what she meant to me couldn't be defined by a disease but instead, by her character, her love, and the life she lived.

My grandmother's beautiful memory lives on in me forever and will be celebrated for a thousand years. That's the legacy of a life truly lived. And so was how Nassima Alrefai lived her life - authentically, fully, and beautifully.