Living with my dad with dementia.

I lost a part of my dad before he was even properly diagnosed.

I lost my dad when he wasn’t able to fix things in my home for me anymore — a man who could do anything he put his mind to.

A man who gave me the world and fiercely protected me.

He was the first person to ever hold me, the first man to ever love me — my hero.

People who had the opportunity to meet the man my dad was before his diagnosis will know he was the kindest, most generous, loving man you could ever meet. He would give anyone his last penny.

I deeply miss the parts of him dementia has stolen.

Grieving someone who is still alive is so hard — not knowing when the end may be, but knowing it won’t get better.

But what does exist…

is the man whose eyes still light up every time he sees me, even if he’s not quite sure who I am.

A man who I can see knows he loves me — that I’m someone special to him — who still calls me “sweetheart.”

I’m not sharing this for sympathy or for anyone to feel sorry for me — I’m sharing it to explain my reality, and the reality so many families are living every single day.

Dementia takes so much, not just from the person living with it, but from the family who love them.

And through all of this, I am still so grateful that I get to love him, hold his hand, and be his daughter — in every version of who he is 💙