Dementia stole my dad—not all at once, but piece by piece
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Dementia stole my dad—not in one sudden, cruel moment, but gradually, like sand slipping through an hourglass. Piece by piece, little fragments of the man I once knew drifted away. At first, it was small things—forgetting a name, misplacing objects, repeating stories he had already told. We brushed it off as part of aging, but deep down, I knew something heavier was at play. Over time, those small cracks widened, and the man who had once been so sharp, witty, and strong began to fade before my eyes.
Watching dementia take hold was like watching him being stolen twice—once in his mind, and again in the heart of everyone who loved him. The hardest part wasn’t just the forgetting of names or events, but the way it reshaped his very sense of self. Sometimes he didn’t remember who I was. Other times, he thought we were living in a completely different decade. I found myself mourning a father who was still physically here but emotionally and mentally slipping further away.
And yet, amid the heartbreak, I discovered something remarkable. Even when the disease stripped away his words, his memories, and the details of our shared life, love remained untouched. His eyes—those familiar, kind eyes—still softened when I sat beside him. His hand would instinctively reach for mine, as if some part of him knew that connection, even if he couldn’t name it anymore. Love, unlike memory, does not vanish. It lingers in gestures, in feelings too deep for illness to erase.
I’ve come to realize that dementia cannot steal everything. Yes, it robs us of conversations, shared laughter, and the comfort of remembering together. But it cannot take the bond between us. It cannot erase the years of sacrifice, the lessons he taught, or the safe space he created for me as a child. In many ways, I carry those memories for both of us now. I am the keeper of his stories, the guardian of his legacy, and the bridge between who he was and who he has become.
Caring for a parent with dementia is one of the greatest heartbreaks, but also one of the greatest honors. It teaches patience, tenderness, and an understanding of love that goes beyond words and recognition. My dad may not always remember me, but I remember him—for all that he was, and all that he still is beneath the disease.
Dementia changed our journey, but it did not erase it. And though the man I knew has faded in many ways, in his eyes I still see a love that outshines memory itself. That, I hold onto. That, I will never lose. 💔👴💕
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