My dad is one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met.
He was known as a gifted poet and speaker at Universidad Mayor de San Andrés in La Paz, Bolivia. But during this time, Colonel Hugo Banzer established a military dictatorship, and amid political repression of students, he left for Madrid in 1971.
Destiny took him to Pontevedra, where he met my mom, a local dressmaker with a shop in town. They married in 1975. As newlyweds, they spent time in Stockholm before settling in my mother’s hometown, where my brother and I were born.
I always thought of my dad as an undiscovered genius
He was an unpublished writer with a gift for explaining complex ideas simply. He taught himself classical guitar and piano, was excellent at maths, could draw well, spoke English, and became a local chess champion in the early 1980s.
We were a bit of an eccentric family. Not rich, but culturally rich and surrounded by our beloved stray dogs. My dad loved philosophy and literature and believed the mind should stay active. As a teen, when I wanted a computer, he gave me his copy of Goethe’s “Faust” and, with his usual wit, told me, “Your brain is your best computer!”
His brain is why I’m writing about him. He’s now one of millions living with Alzheimer’s, a form of dementia, but to me, he’s my one in a million — my brilliant dad.
He was diagnosed at 71 with Alzheimer’s and is now 77
For a time, he became suspicious and accused my mother of stealing his things. She felt overwhelmed, and we tried a day care center, but it didn’t work. The place was good, but my dad is independent and stubborn, so he wanted to leave, questioning what he was doing among “old people”.
The big turning point for us was when he spent a week in the hospital because of a medical issue unrelated to Alzheimer’s. Being bed-bound in the hospital made him depressed, and it was difficult for the nurses to manage him. They regularly sedated him to keep him calm and to stop him from trying to leave. It was heartbreaking. Once sedated, he lost the spirit that kept him active. That experience made us certain that a care home was not for him. We feared he would spend much of his time medicated so staff could manage him.
He never accepted his diagnosis
At every neurologist appointment, he asked why he was there, calling me a hypochondriac.
But he’s a fortunate man. He has my mother. Without her, he would not be able to enjoy the life he has. She has an admirable work ethic, and by 11 a.m., she’s cleaned the house, done laundry, shopped for food, and is making lunch. Their marriage is far from perfect, but after 51 years, they have their own understanding. She’s the practical one and speaks in Galician sayings and proverbs — and he is the one philosophizing it all. When they argue — as they do daily — he may come out with a line from Nietzsche while she replies with a saying.
Let’s not romanticize it, though. He can be exasperating. He wakes regularly during the night, disrupting her sleep, hides things, and can become wary and distressed, believing his IDs or watch have been taken. He refuses to cut his hair and wears many layers of clothing. He had pneumonia in his 20s and remembers it, so he wraps up warm all year.
Even so, being in his familiar environment is more comforting than any institution could be.
We want him to have independence
Living in a small city like Pontevedra has helped. People often spot him walking — a bit like “Where’s Waldo?”, always on the move and familiar to many. When I bump into him, he says, “I’ve been looking for you all afternoon!”
This independence comes with worries. He insists on going for walks even when told not to. He may fall, get disoriented, or tell café staff he has paid when he hasn’t. Once, someone brought him home after finding him lost. He may lose the flip phone, he rarely answers, or return with someone else’s umbrella.
My dad cannot remember what he did two hours ago, yet he can work out maths questions, help my child with schoolwork, or play chess.
In this family, care means involving him in daily life rather than placing him in an unfamiliar environment. This independence is dignity, far more than keeping him quiet or under control. He’s a loving abuelo who still enjoys his steak with chips and a café con leche out in town, and who believes life is business as usual. And for now, it is for him.
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