It began innocently enough, with my dad misplacing his car keys—something many would consider typical. But then, he started forgetting to take his medication. I noticed items like yogurt and milk left in the cupboard instead of the fridge. At the time, I was a new mom, juggling the overwhelming demands of parenthood. I was fatigued and having my own moments of forgetfulness. Perhaps that’s why it took me so long to recognize the signs—or maybe I just didn’t want to confront the reality.
When my father received his Alzheimer’s diagnosis, I wasn’t shocked; the warning signs had been evident. But the weight of the news hit me hard later on. My sister and I devoted ourselves to caring for him, making daily trips back and forth between our homes and his, often with one or two little ones in tow. We frequently grocery shopped for him, only to find him heating food in the microwave and forgetting it, or eating continuously because he didn’t recall his last meal. His medication was often neglected as well, leading to double doses or missed ones.
Eventually, we faced the heartbreaking truth: he could no longer live independently. It was a perilous situation, and we knew he required constant care. So, with heavy hearts, we made the difficult decision to place him in a nursing home. I reassured myself that he was safe and that it was in his best interest, yet every visit was like a punch to the gut. He was angry and felt abandoned.
His hurtful words pierced through me, even though I understood they were the result of the disease. Each comment and every moment spent with him felt like a piece of my heart being torn away. No amount of reassurance from others could ease my pain. My father was physically present, but the essence of who he once was had faded away.
The once vibrant man who stood tall and strong had become a frail shadow of his former self. On good days, a glimpse of his humor and sarcasm shone through, but he no longer recognized his grandchildren. He couldn’t appreciate that Sebastian was picky with food or that Silas looked just like him while Simon inherited his eye color. My children know their grandpa only as the fragile figure who can’t lift them or engage in play. They’re missing out on the man I cherished, the one who could strum a guitar and make even the most mundane conversations captivating with his accent and laughter. This disease has robbed my kids of a connection to their grandfather.
What terrifies me is that Alzheimer’s has a genetic component. My father comes from a long line of individuals affected by it, and I worry that I might be next in line. I find myself gripped by fear that I will start forgetting, too. On stressful days, I sometimes struggle to recall the simplest of things, like a word I know should come easily. Yes, I’m a busy mom and fully aware that forgetfulness often comes with the territory. But I’m talking about more significant and alarming moments. There are times when I’m describing something and my mind fails me on the name of something as basic as a cup. I wrestle with frustration as I wait for it to come back to me. Cup, Dana. It’s right in front of you.
I look at my children and can’t fathom losing the memories of their quirks and habits, both the endearing and the annoying. Those memories are my anchors when life feels overwhelming. What would I do if I couldn’t remember who they are? I envision growing old with my husband, enjoying vacations together, reminiscing about the life we’ve built, and eventually becoming grandparents ourselves. But what if I lose the ability to remember that he is the father of my children? I dread placing the burden of my care on him, even though deep down, I know he would never let me feel that way. He would love and protect me, just as I do for my dad.
I understand I can’t live in constant fear of the unknown. I shouldn’t dwell on a life that may never come to pass. But it’s only human to feel apprehensive when witnessing a loved one slowly fade away into a mere shell of themselves.
Alzheimer’s is beyond my control; I can’t make it vanish, and there is no cure. When I visit my dad, I examine every line on his hands, etching his image into my memory. I do the same with my kids, watching them intently when they’re unaware. I cherish their laughter and all their little moments. Those are the memories I want to hold close to my heart when I feel lost in sadness.
The love between us remains untouched by Alzheimer’s. My dad knows I love him, and I can still feel his affection, even when words fail him. I make it a daily priority to ensure my husband and children know they are my everything. They will never doubt my love. But if there comes a day when I can’t express it verbally or when my mind escapes me, they will carry with them the memories of my love: “I love you more than you could ever know. You are my life, and you make my world beautiful. Every moment spent with you is a gift. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
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Summary:
This heartfelt reflection discusses the author’s experience of watching her father’s battle with Alzheimer’s and the associated fears of inheriting the condition. It captures the emotional struggles of balancing caregiving while raising young children, expressing the deep connections and memories that make life meaningful. Ultimately, it emphasizes the enduring love that remains despite the ravages of the disease.