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Today I filmed a short video of Dad, just sitting with him in the morning light. It seemed like a small, quiet moment—nothing dramatic or out of the ordinary. He was wearing that familiar navy sweatshirt with the bright, almost childlike truck design on it, the one he wears often now. It adds a little color to his days, even if he no longer notices it. But as I recorded, I found myself swallowing hard, my eyes misting over before I even understood why.
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Maybe it’s because it hit me—this video might become one of the last I have where he’s still somewhat “present.” He wasn’t saying much today, just gazing upward, lips slightly parted, eyes moving as if searching for something only he could see. It’s in moments like these that I realize how quickly dementia erodes the man I once knew. The body is still here, his hands still move, he still blinks and breathes—but the essence of who he was feels like it’s slipping further away.
It’s tough watching someone you love disappear in slow motion. That’s what dementia does. It doesn’t steal everything all at once—it takes pieces. First it took his short-term memory. Then his sense of place. Then the sharpness in his eyes when he’d recognize me with a proud smile. And now, it’s working on his voice, his spirit, his connection to the world around him.
He sat there with his torso cinched gently by the safety belt of his wheelchair, something we never imagined would be part of his daily routine. Once upon a time, he was so strong, so full of life—commanding the room with his humor and his stories. A father who could fix anything, figure out any problem, or light up any moment with his charm. Now he needs help with everything. Even holding himself upright takes effort.
And yet—despite all this—there’s still a kind of quiet dignity in him. The kind that remains even when memory doesn’t. I see it in the way he sits, the little flicker in his eyes when he hears a familiar sound. The way he still tries to hold on, even though the world doesn’t always make sense to him anymore.
Filming him today wasn’t about documenting decline—it was about holding onto something real. A connection. A heartbeat. A fragment of the man who raised me. I want to remember this—not just the pain, but the presence. His presence.
These days, caregiving is a blend of exhaustion and grace. Of sleepless nights, heavy lifting, and silent prayers whispered in the hallway while he sleeps. I give so much, yet often feel helpless. I try to bring him joy, even if just for a few seconds—a favorite song, a gentle back rub, the scent of coffee in the morning.
Watching this video back just now, I found myself narrating quietly to no one: That’s still my dad. Maybe not the same man from my childhood, not even the same man from last year. But still—my dad. And loving him through this season has become one of the hardest and most sacred things I’ve ever done.
So yes—this was a tough video for me. But I’m grateful I captured it. Because when the silence grows heavier, and the memories blur, I’ll have this moment—this morning sunlight, that sweatshirt, that upward glance. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll remember what it meant to sit beside him, even when words failed us both.
And I’ll remind myself: love doesn’t fade with memory. It holds on. Even in the hardest chapters.
Even in the quiet.
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