Dementia stole my dad and still alive
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Dementia stole my dad, and yet he is still alive. That is one of the hardest truths to live with—knowing he is physically here, sitting in front of me, but so many parts of who he once was have been quietly taken away. It is not like losing someone in a single moment; it is losing them slowly, in fragments, until the person you remember feels out of reach. My dad, who once carried stories, wisdom, and laughter so easily, now struggles to recall names, places, or even conversations we had just moments before.
But though dementia has reshaped him, it hasn’t erased him. He is still here. I see him in the sparkle that sometimes flashes in his eyes, in the familiar way his hand reaches for mine, in the soft hum of a tune he used to sing long ago. Those moments may be brief, but they are proof that the man I love has not been completely stolen. They remind me that love survives even where memory falters.
It is a strange kind of grief—to miss someone who is still living. Yet, alongside that grief, there is also gratitude. Gratitude for each smile, each laugh, each gentle touch. Dementia has taken much, but it cannot take away the bond between us. My dad is still alive, and every day with him, no matter how different, is a gift I hold close to my heart.
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