Beautiful and sad and hard. As always, your essay before the poem is just as beautiful as the poem. I especially love this part: "It’s so hard to let go of the idea that you can't remind your parent who they are, who they were. You correct them to try to keep them. When you stop correcting them it can feel like giving up, like letting go. You are relinquishing them to a world where you don’t live, where you can’t even visit. It’s also when you start grieving the loss of them. They are in the process of leaving you and you have to watch them recede further and further from the life you lived together."
I remember conversations like those with my dad. I remember him asking me very seriously “are you my father?” And telling me that he was 14 when I asked him how old he was. I remember when he was convinced that he had had a leg taken off. He wasn’t over concerned about it, he just announced it as a matter of fact. I counted both of his legs with him to prove that he had two.
But most of all I remember the love he kept for everyone, whether he knew them or not. When I pushed his wheelchair through the park or the local streets he regularly used to greet passers by with a cheery “Hello my dear friend!” It was lovely to see their responses. I know that I was lucky. He was lucky, some people are not so positive and childlike in their dotage as he was, but in his case, it seemed like a really gentle set of closing scenes.
Thanks for reading and engaging, Mike. I'm really glad your memories of your dad's old age have so much sweetness in them. The people who care for my mom always tell me how sweet she is to them. I'm really grateful that she shows a soft side to the people who care for her. I'm happy there so much positivity in her life now.
Thank you for sharing this, Tara. I don't know what's worse, these kinds of conversations or no conversation at all? Or the simple truth that we are slowly losing them one way or another.
Oh Tara, I can relate to this so much. My dad also has dementia and the 'conversations' we have now are so different to the ones we used to have when he was well, actually now my dad doesn't talk much, he whistles a lot and nothing he does say makes any sense at all, just stringing words together,,, its heartbreaking. Sending you love as you travel on this path x
You had us prepped but still the chuckle, the wince, the shake, the tears. I'm raw after the read and appreciate you sharing this intimate piece.
Thank you so much for reading. Much appreciated.
Beautiful and sad and hard. As always, your essay before the poem is just as beautiful as the poem. I especially love this part: "It’s so hard to let go of the idea that you can't remind your parent who they are, who they were. You correct them to try to keep them. When you stop correcting them it can feel like giving up, like letting go. You are relinquishing them to a world where you don’t live, where you can’t even visit. It’s also when you start grieving the loss of them. They are in the process of leaving you and you have to watch them recede further and further from the life you lived together."
Thanks, Margaret. I know it's tough stuff and I appreciate you spending time with it. 🤗
I remember conversations like those with my dad. I remember him asking me very seriously “are you my father?” And telling me that he was 14 when I asked him how old he was. I remember when he was convinced that he had had a leg taken off. He wasn’t over concerned about it, he just announced it as a matter of fact. I counted both of his legs with him to prove that he had two.
But most of all I remember the love he kept for everyone, whether he knew them or not. When I pushed his wheelchair through the park or the local streets he regularly used to greet passers by with a cheery “Hello my dear friend!” It was lovely to see their responses. I know that I was lucky. He was lucky, some people are not so positive and childlike in their dotage as he was, but in his case, it seemed like a really gentle set of closing scenes.
Thanks for reading and engaging, Mike. I'm really glad your memories of your dad's old age have so much sweetness in them. The people who care for my mom always tell me how sweet she is to them. I'm really grateful that she shows a soft side to the people who care for her. I'm happy there so much positivity in her life now.
Thank you for sharing this, Tara. I don't know what's worse, these kinds of conversations or no conversation at all? Or the simple truth that we are slowly losing them one way or another.
Fotini, thanks for reading. I really appreciate you being here. 🤗
Oh Tara, I can relate to this so much. My dad also has dementia and the 'conversations' we have now are so different to the ones we used to have when he was well, actually now my dad doesn't talk much, he whistles a lot and nothing he does say makes any sense at all, just stringing words together,,, its heartbreaking. Sending you love as you travel on this path x
Lisa, I'm so sorry you're coping with the same stuff. It's so hard, all along the way. All of these incremental losses. Sending love.
This really touched me, Tara.
Thanks, Jeffrey. I appreciate you saying that.
Very poignant Tara, I was right there. What a journey you've all been on. Thanks for explaining it so beautifully. I was right there too.
Thank you so much for reading. It has been a long journey. It helps to write about it.
Moving, humorous and sad- and effective!
Thanks, Thomas. Appreciate you reading.
Oof how beautiful this is but also how heartbreaking it must be 💛