Dementia didn’t take my father all at once. It crept in slowly, like a thief in the night—first stealing his short-term memory, then his sense of time, and eventually his grasp on reality. I used to think the cruelest thing in the world was death, but I’ve come to learn that watching someone you love slowly disappear while they’re still breathing is a different kind of heartbreak—one that never lets you grieve in full.
My dad was once the sharpest man I knew—quick with a joke, meticulous with detail, always reading, always learning. He taught me how to ride a bike, how to tie a tie, and how to stand up for what I believe in. He was my compass, my quiet strength. But now, some days he looks at me and doesn’t know my name. Other days, he’s convinced he’s still at work or back in a time when his own parents were alive.
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There are moments—brief, beautiful moments—when he remembers a song, a story, or says something so “him” that I want to freeze time. I treasure those flashes of clarity, knowing they won’t last. I try to meet him where he is, even if that place is decades away from today.
What dementia doesn’t steal, though, is love. His spirit—though bruised and altered—still holds the essence of who he is. I still see glimpses of his warmth in the way he smiles at children, or chuckles at an old TV show. There’s still a spark in his eyes when we hold hands, even if he’s not sure why my presence brings him peace.
Caring for someone with dementia has taught me patience, and redefined what it means to be present. It’s also taught me grief in slow motion—a daily mourning of memories, roles, and conversations we’ll never get to have again.
Dementia may have taken my dad’s mind, but it cannot erase his legacy. He is still my father. Still my hero. And I will continue loving him, fiercely and gently, through every stage—until the last flicker fades.
Because even when he forgets me, I will never forget him.
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