In December 2018, my mom sent a group text to hop on a call. She was holding the results of my dad’s test. He has asked my mom to deliver the news.
My dad, who spent his entire life showing up for other people, couldn’t bring himself to deliver the news to his kids. His cognitive test came to 17 out of 30.
By November 2019, the results were official. I was living in Brooklyn, eight months pregnant with my first baby, standing in my kitchen with my husband making dinner, when we got the call. My dad had Alzheimer’s.
He was 66 when he was diagnosed
My dad was a quiet man. Deeply humble. A highly respected otolaryngologist who built a free clinic for people without health insurance, traveled to Guatemala to build an orphanage and provide medical care for remote villages, and volunteered at the local homeless shelter. He did it all without fanfare.
He kept his emotions to himself, but he read and wrote constantly. Journals, notes, and margins filled with his thoughts. Writing was his private place to process the world. And exercise was his outlet for mental health. He had a place for everything. Told us we’d never lose something if we always put it back. I hear his voice every time I repeat it as I’m cleaning up with my kids.
He was healthy. And only six years into his early retirement, at age 66, he faced Alzheimer’s.
My dad did so many great things quietly. And it wasn’t until I sat down at his desk that I realized how much more there was about him I didn’t know.
My dad is losing himself
Last Thanksgiving, we went back to my childhood home to clean it out before the sale. I asked my dad if he wanted to go through his desk together. He looked at a few papers and quietly walked away. So I sat down on the floor next to it.
A big white desk, neat the way he always kept everything. A corkboard covered in cards, phrases, and sayings. Trinkets from his hospital office. A whole life, carefully arranged.
I started opening folders. Each one had a very specific title: quotes, book ideas, Bible study, purpose of life, patient thank-yous. I read everything he wrote, underlined, circled, scribbled in the margins. I had become his memory holder, discovering him in a way I couldn’t get from our conversations anymore. And there was so much more I wanted to learn about him.
My dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when I was pregnant with my first child. Now I’m pregnant again with my third, raising two kids who are discovering themselves, while caring for a dad who is losing himself.
I am parenting in both directions
At dinner, I’m cutting up food for my 3-year-old, reminding him to sit and eat. Then turning to do the same for my dad.
I’m signing my kids up for school and setting up care for my dad.
Making sure everyone is safe, fed, and not left alone. Witnessing development and decline simultaneously. I feel like I need to be in two places at once, because sometimes life actually depends on it.
My dad no longer creates interactions naturally. So I curate them. I put toys on the table. I place Beckett next to Papa with a book. I cling to the five minutes they have together before someone loses interest.
When my dad colors with my 6-year-old, my mind flashes between the respected surgeon he was and the man struggling to stay within the lines. Violet looks up and asks why Papa colors like that. I tell her that’s how creativity looks; everyone does it differently. Protecting my dad from shame and interpreting for my daughter.
My kids see his quirks as cute and funny, and I try to see them that way too. But when we are alone, they ask harder questions. Will you get old like Papa? Why does Papa put his knife in his water? I’ve become the translator of confusing behavior.
I’m stuck between beginnings and endings
Last summer at my childhood lake house, my parents could only stay a short while. When it was time to leave, our whole family stood in the driveway. We watched their car pull away. Just as my kids are starting to make memories there, I don’t think my dad will ever come back. And as chapters are opening in my life, I am constantly closing others in his. Stretched between beginnings and endings.
Most days, I wear a facade, mourning privately while performing stability publicly. I don’t want my dad to see me always sad. I want my kids to feel the joy of being together. So I hold it.
But one night after my parents left our house, I was putting the kids to bed, crying. Violet asked me why. I told her I was sad about Papa.
She looked at me and said, “Mom, let me tell you something. You have a heart, and Papa is going to look in there.”
I hugged her a little tighter and whispered, “You’re right.”
My dad used to say relationships are everything. I’m making sure my kids know it too.
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