The word "beloved" always brings this poem by Raymond Carver to mind. It reminds me of all I have ever wanted and really all I ever want. Perhaps this is true for your Dad ... and you. Big Love.
I just want to echo your Dad, Courtney: “You’re really great. You really are. You’re a neat person." Don't know where these tears are coming from... Love, Parker
Thank you, Courtney, for sharing glimpses of the bitter and sweet journey of caregiving for a beloved family member with Alzheimer’s. Like your father, my husband had trouble answering simple questions about himself. The pain of him knowing the answers but not having the right words and ease with which to reply was heartbreaking to witness. Over time it became easier for him to remain silent, looking to me to speak on his behalf. And yet, when it was just us, he could usually find some words to carry on a simple conversation which would conclude with either “I love you” or “Thank you.” Those refrains were a constant in our life together. I am forever grateful that, at the end, he could still remember and speak these most beautiful words to me.
I love learning more about your father and your wonderful relationship with him, and it makes me fall in love with him. How lucky that your girls will have these writings of yours to show to their kids. When my mom was too far into her dementia to remember her story, and she was a great storyteller, I made a book w/ photographs of her life. She would meet new people and ceremoniously order me to "give them the book" so they could know her brave, heroic history of being in combat in WW2. It allowed her to stay in the present moment when she met people and kept her calmer and happier. Your father is so fortunate to have you and his loved ones to advocate for him. So many people don't have that blessing.
The relationship, the understanding, the patience, the memories and their absence, the love. Thank you for your writing and sharing. Deeply felt all the more as my dad hasn't spoken to me in ten years, not because of dementia but choice. A loss of another kind, So very sweet to read of a father and a daughter who have something so durable between them. I have in my head so often your piece of him as your doula... You are wonderful. And very much appreciated. Thank you for showing such a beautiful way of moving through life.
My own father is eighty-four and is lucid and can still manage to play golf with my brothers. And yet he's NEVER once told me, "You're really great...you're a neat person." I'm so touched whenever you write about your father here Courtney. Despite the continual unraveling of his mental processes, his vibrant, loving heart is alive and well. That's the common thread throughout all the roles he's had in his life and why all the descriptions of him seem so lacking in their ability to capture the wholeness of who he is to you. How do you convey the powerful 'heart' with words? I have a similar feeling when I try to describe my son Patrick, who we lost in 2018. The incompleteness of it all--I could really relate.
Thank you for sharing this. I sometimes feel like we’re so unlucky because my dad has dementia but we have been lucky in so many ways, too. There is no simple story when it comes to those we love. So sorry for the loss of your son.
I've been reading your writing since your "On Being" days, and I can see so many ways you have intentionally chosen a life that has led you to become this person you are now. And I'm so glad your dad is able to experience that in you, even as it is heartbreaking that he is no longer able to articulate it. I am so grateful to you for sharing your journey with us.
My sisters and I are traveling the same journey as you are with your dad, and I so appreciate your stories of doubt and frustration, love and care. Both my mom and dad have dementia and are living in an assisted living facility near one of my sisters. We take turns visiting them and taking them back to their lovely rural home where they can no longer live without round-the-clock care, which they have declined. I am constantly saddened by my dad’s (in particular) loss of biography. Like your dad, he was a lawyer and he struggles to locate words to describe himself. He still longs to be known. Thank you for sharing your life and thoughts. They make me feel less alone.
"What we are really telling them, over and over again in as many ways as we can think to is: he is beloved." Anyone listening will hear that loud and clear, just as your dad can hear loud and clear that you are a neat person.
I just want to echo your Dad, Courtney: “You’re really great. You really are. You’re a neat person." Don't know where these tears are coming from... Love, Parker
Thank you. I was lucky that my mother wrote a memoir about herself and HER mother before the Alzheimer’s advanced too far. And yet I still needed to write essays about her and me.
My husband’s short-term memory loss is different, more of a flickering in and out. Sometimes during one of our episodes when I tell him a story from his life, it comes back and he adds and rabbit trails and links it to the rest of the life he currently holds…and sometimes it never sounds familiar at all.
But I had never recognized it as a weight or even a role I had taken on until you named it in this essay. Thank you.
You wrote this beautifully from your honest and loving heart. Both of my parents died early. However, at the end of my dad's life, he and I engaged in some of the most memorable conversations of our lives together. Those memories that we hold on to and then share are priceless.
I so appreciate your tender and deeply personal/universal writing about your dad. My dad had a long journey with Alzheimer's before his death in 2020, and my mom is going through her own journey now with a different type of dementia. I have so many feelings and thoughts about it and often they seem to contradict—always they are hard to express. Reading your take helps me make sense of all of it a little more. Thank you.
There are so many cases in which the survey questions designed to gather the most useful information seem to miss the mark until one gets to the question of whether there is anything else one should know.
If my daughter were to describe me, explaining my career or vocation would be relevant because I chose it and shaped it to reflect my values and interests and the situations in which I like to place myself. Similarly, that my daughter was a physicist is very defining of the questions that capture her imagination.
But for my father, it wouldn't be at all. He worked at jobs an immigrant with a heavy accent could get. It wasn't chosen work.
The word "beloved" always brings this poem by Raymond Carver to mind. It reminds me of all I have ever wanted and really all I ever want. Perhaps this is true for your Dad ... and you. Big Love.
Late Fragment
Raymond Carver
And did you get what
you wanted from this life even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
Oh my, this is beyond gorgeous. Thank you thank you.
I just want to echo your Dad, Courtney: “You’re really great. You really are. You’re a neat person." Don't know where these tears are coming from... Love, Parker
Thank you, Courtney, for sharing glimpses of the bitter and sweet journey of caregiving for a beloved family member with Alzheimer’s. Like your father, my husband had trouble answering simple questions about himself. The pain of him knowing the answers but not having the right words and ease with which to reply was heartbreaking to witness. Over time it became easier for him to remain silent, looking to me to speak on his behalf. And yet, when it was just us, he could usually find some words to carry on a simple conversation which would conclude with either “I love you” or “Thank you.” Those refrains were a constant in our life together. I am forever grateful that, at the end, he could still remember and speak these most beautiful words to me.
I love learning more about your father and your wonderful relationship with him, and it makes me fall in love with him. How lucky that your girls will have these writings of yours to show to their kids. When my mom was too far into her dementia to remember her story, and she was a great storyteller, I made a book w/ photographs of her life. She would meet new people and ceremoniously order me to "give them the book" so they could know her brave, heroic history of being in combat in WW2. It allowed her to stay in the present moment when she met people and kept her calmer and happier. Your father is so fortunate to have you and his loved ones to advocate for him. So many people don't have that blessing.
What a great idea, thank you Victoria!
Beautiful, Courtney.
The relationship, the understanding, the patience, the memories and their absence, the love. Thank you for your writing and sharing. Deeply felt all the more as my dad hasn't spoken to me in ten years, not because of dementia but choice. A loss of another kind, So very sweet to read of a father and a daughter who have something so durable between them. I have in my head so often your piece of him as your doula... You are wonderful. And very much appreciated. Thank you for showing such a beautiful way of moving through life.
We both have complicated grief then. Sending love Heather. Thanks for carrying me and my dad with you.
My own father is eighty-four and is lucid and can still manage to play golf with my brothers. And yet he's NEVER once told me, "You're really great...you're a neat person." I'm so touched whenever you write about your father here Courtney. Despite the continual unraveling of his mental processes, his vibrant, loving heart is alive and well. That's the common thread throughout all the roles he's had in his life and why all the descriptions of him seem so lacking in their ability to capture the wholeness of who he is to you. How do you convey the powerful 'heart' with words? I have a similar feeling when I try to describe my son Patrick, who we lost in 2018. The incompleteness of it all--I could really relate.
Thank you for sharing this. I sometimes feel like we’re so unlucky because my dad has dementia but we have been lucky in so many ways, too. There is no simple story when it comes to those we love. So sorry for the loss of your son.
I've been reading your writing since your "On Being" days, and I can see so many ways you have intentionally chosen a life that has led you to become this person you are now. And I'm so glad your dad is able to experience that in you, even as it is heartbreaking that he is no longer able to articulate it. I am so grateful to you for sharing your journey with us.
Thank you for being a longtime reader and witness!
My sisters and I are traveling the same journey as you are with your dad, and I so appreciate your stories of doubt and frustration, love and care. Both my mom and dad have dementia and are living in an assisted living facility near one of my sisters. We take turns visiting them and taking them back to their lovely rural home where they can no longer live without round-the-clock care, which they have declined. I am constantly saddened by my dad’s (in particular) loss of biography. Like your dad, he was a lawyer and he struggles to locate words to describe himself. He still longs to be known. Thank you for sharing your life and thoughts. They make me feel less alone.
Sending big love and solidarity, Heidi. Thanks for letting me know that this resonates.
"What we are really telling them, over and over again in as many ways as we can think to is: he is beloved." Anyone listening will hear that loud and clear, just as your dad can hear loud and clear that you are a neat person.
This is such a gorgeous piece. Thank you for sharing your journey with us. Sending your whole family grace!
I just want to echo your Dad, Courtney: “You’re really great. You really are. You’re a neat person." Don't know where these tears are coming from... Love, Parker
Thank you. I was lucky that my mother wrote a memoir about herself and HER mother before the Alzheimer’s advanced too far. And yet I still needed to write essays about her and me.
My husband’s short-term memory loss is different, more of a flickering in and out. Sometimes during one of our episodes when I tell him a story from his life, it comes back and he adds and rabbit trails and links it to the rest of the life he currently holds…and sometimes it never sounds familiar at all.
But I had never recognized it as a weight or even a role I had taken on until you named it in this essay. Thank you.
I can't do better than echo Parker's succinct comment, and as usual through the tears. DD
You wrote this beautifully from your honest and loving heart. Both of my parents died early. However, at the end of my dad's life, he and I engaged in some of the most memorable conversations of our lives together. Those memories that we hold on to and then share are priceless.
I so appreciate your tender and deeply personal/universal writing about your dad. My dad had a long journey with Alzheimer's before his death in 2020, and my mom is going through her own journey now with a different type of dementia. I have so many feelings and thoughts about it and often they seem to contradict—always they are hard to express. Reading your take helps me make sense of all of it a little more. Thank you.
Sending solidarity for your journeys. I can only imagine all you have learned/are learning with two different kinds of cognitive decline.
There are so many cases in which the survey questions designed to gather the most useful information seem to miss the mark until one gets to the question of whether there is anything else one should know.
If my daughter were to describe me, explaining my career or vocation would be relevant because I chose it and shaped it to reflect my values and interests and the situations in which I like to place myself. Similarly, that my daughter was a physicist is very defining of the questions that capture her imagination.
But for my father, it wouldn't be at all. He worked at jobs an immigrant with a heavy accent could get. It wasn't chosen work.