The Last Joke

This weekend, I saw my dad take three things, combine them and make a very funny joke. While dementia is stealing his memory for him, he still has his sense of humor. He’s still there. He still remembers me. He is still proud of my boys. He spends his days standing by the fire and greeting people when they walk in the memory-care home. And he beams when I walk through the door.

When he says he loves me, I know he means it. Through all the mourning and pain, that’s a balm that heals.

I know that his light will eventually flicker out. And I dread that day. I’ve had a taste of it already. Last November, he didn’t know he had a son. That hurt. I’ve had some other remarkably painful moments for other reasons — some that just don’t make sense. So many of you have gone through this. You understand. Dementia is the devil walking the earth.

I’m road-weary. And I’m sad. I’m frustrated and disappointed. But honestly, this has made me realize how special my wife and sons are to me. They are positive souls that have kept me sane. I realize that while I can’t change people or events, I can make sure I never go down certain paths. I can be a great father and husband. And and a good brother to my sisters. I hope my parents realize what special daughters they have. I know I do.

My dad lost his two first-cousins to dementia and I know this is a nightmare for him. I get that. Because it’s now my nightmare that I can’t seem to wake up from either. Losing him this way sucks. There is not better way to put it.

All I can do is love and do what I can. I’ll be grateful. And I’ll dread the day when I hear my last joke from my dad.