Saving My Dad Saved Me

ALL WRITTEN AND ARTWORK ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF PSG LOPES/THE MOONLIT GODDESS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, 2016-2023.

My father first showed signs of memory struggles when he was sixty-seven. He would be in the middle of talking to me and my family and stop mid-sentence holding his head. At first, he would laugh it off, “I’m having so much trouble with my words!” The man was always a whirlwind for as long as I can remember. He could never sit still during the day. He worked several jobs. We would see him fleetingly throughout the day for short bursts and then on the weekends. Our family shrugged off his forgetfulness. We saw it as him getting older and spreading himself too thin.

Sixty-nine hit, and we now knew my dad's forgetfulness wasn't simply a quirk of getting older. It was something much more complicated. His personality changed drastically. As I tried desperately to get my own life sorted, I now had to shift from daughter to his keeper. My family ensured he didn’t get into too much trouble. My father retired by then, and I finally got to see my father more and noticed his erratic behavior. I never had a strong relationship with my father, but I always felt a strange connection with him. We were both intellectuals. We enjoyed reading and furthering our education and had that in common. For reasons unknown to me then and now, it was an unspoken agreement that I was Dad’s favorite. I carried the weight of this enormous responsibility years before Dad's illness.

In 2016, my dad became a flight risk and needed full-time help. At the same time, I lost my job. I knew I had drawn the short end of the stick. I knew both of our lives were over—his from his disease, and mine because I knew I’d have to care for him for the rest of his life. We got the diagnosis. As suspected, he had developed early-onset dementia. Differing medical professionals held their own opinions about Dad's exact diagnosis. We never truly learned exactly what he has and what were the exact causes. All we have is speculation.

Becoming a caregiver was complicated for me. I was angry because I couldn’t secure a job no matter how hard I worked. I was dealing with several of my own unhealed traumas. Having to simultaneously care for another human being and myself seemed insurmountable then. I resented my father for not taking better care of his health while he was himself. I resented that he was so bad with money that he never thought to prepare for his future after retirement. He lived every day like it was his last day on Earth and our entire family had to go along for the wild ride. Now here I was paying for his mistakes.

I’m unmarried and child-free. I've never taken care of another human being before. Caregiving was the first time I had any heavy responsibility. I know it’s not exactly the same as being a parent, but the responsibility is still huge. My dad became like this overgrown toddler, but he was growing in reverse. His milestones were being removed one by one. The words were escaping him like evaporating smoke. He became aggressive, hard to handle, and every day weaker than the previous day.

Being in his presence every single day, I learned a lot about the healthcare system. I also learned about their attitudes toward the elderly population. I realized that once people retired, they were deemed insignificant. I learned that there were next to zero resources for the elderly population. You either had to be very rich or very poor to get any sort of help. For a man who worked so hard his entire life it all but broke me seeing him discarded like he was worthless. I shifted my mentality from that of anger and pain to that of advocacy. I’ve become outspoken when it comes to his care. I got to know the man that I once knew as my father, and he has become my very best friend.

I don’t romanticize the role he played during my childhood, teenage years, and early adulthood. I remember well the type of man my father was. I also recognize that everyone is entitled to process pain in their own way, and this is how I choose to process mine. I don’t want to hold onto any anger. I don’t want to hold onto any past resentment. The man who lays in that hospital bed in my family’s living room is not the man we once knew. Even though he didn’t ask for dementia to ravage his brain, I strongly believe that this was his destiny.

Because of this treacherous disease, I got to spend time with my father. I got to know this version of him. I got to hear him praise me when he still had the words left to use. He told me he loved me. He called me his jewel. Even now when all he’s left with is nothing more than baby babble, I know he loves me. I know he loves me when he smiles as he recognizes me entering the room. He holds my hand with a mighty strength I, myself, do not have. I know he appreciates me. I know he’s grateful I’m there for him. I’m grateful too because I got to do something remarkable. I got to repair a very broken relationship between a father and a daughter. I am complete for the first time in my life and have a relationship with both of my parents, not only my mother. My father, gratefully, is stable and thriving at eighty years old. He is comfortable and happy. He loves his cartoons, our beloved cats, his toy dolly, his books, and yummy foods. I’m grateful for every day I still have with him.

During this time, I’ve also started writing and creating art full-time. A lot of what I write about focuses on what my family and I went through during my father’s illness. I also focus my work on my own mental health struggles. I’ve learned a lot about myself as well. I learned that I have "acquired neurodivergence." This is due to my complex post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, and anxiety. I’ve become more aware of my various eating disorders. I’ve learned why it was so difficult for me to make and keep friends. I've learned why I could never forge lasting and meaningful relationships. I also learned why I’d always quit or get fired from every job I’ve ever held. Even though I'm in extreme poverty, this time helped me grieve for everything I lost due to my past traumas. I never got to stop and process what happened to me throughout my life. During my time as a full-time caregiver, I chose to work on healing while also repairing the damage—all while being there for my family.

I recently learned that my love language is "acts of service." I do feel that defines who I am perfectly. I give a lot of myself to others and sometimes I am resentful that I seldom get that same level of love and care back. It's complicated though because I like the idea of being relied upon. I like being there for others even though I don’t have anyone to be there in the same capacity. There’s a lot of work left needed to help the elderly population age with grace. There’s also a lot of work left to help the mental health community. We need to be there more for each other even during times when we ourselves are spread a little thin. We need to check in on each other more often. We need to decide what we feel comfortable offering to others. Whether it is to call, text, video chat, invite for a cup of coffee, give a hug, or any other form of support, that's your choice. You may think that those are small and insignificant acts. To me, those small acts are the difference between losing or saving a life.