Alzheimers. That word means “loss” to me. 

Mom forgot you don’t take things from a store without paying. Forgot my name. Forgot Dad was her husband. Lastly, forgot how to swallow.

I grieved the loss of Mom with each stage. So much so that there were no tears left when she finally passed. 

I had been so very attached to her for as long as I could remember. Needed her close. Feared losing her. “Attached” wasn’t always positive, though. Her emotions ran deep and strong and varied. She expressed them all. Loudly.  

I took on her feelings as my own—her pride in me, and her disappointment. But there was a sense of safety in always knowing what she felt and where I stood with her. 

After she passed, Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I didn’t think it would be as hard to navigate. You see, we’d never been close and never spent time alone. We only knew one another with Mom in the center of us. 

My strongest memories are of Dad checking my Math homework. I’d bring it to him while he sat in his favorite chair after dinner. He’d give my paper his undivided attention, then hand it back to me with a smile when it was right. 

I know my dad’s loss of words from his once extensive vocabulary has frustrated him most. I do recognize that. Then, losing memories of who he once was has been the kindest part of the disease.

Without a doubt, my father is the smartest man I’ve ever met… and emotionally unavailable. I am emotionally unavailable to him, too, though. Which came first? I struggle with that question so much. I love him and believe he loves me, even though we never verbalize it or show it physically. It was just that unspoken thing between us. 

Now that he’s suffering, I feel more pain and guilt than I ever thought possible. 

But I’m detached, right? Shouldn’t that mean I don’t feel anything? I’m unaffected, right? Wrong. So very painfully wrong. 

I’ve recently decided that attachment may bring scars, but it’s something solid I can hold onto. Whereas detachment means I have holes inside of me, or more accurately, fractures. 

My pain is worse with Dad’s decline because I’ve never felt comfortable with the distance between us, yet I never felt comfortable enough to get closer. And now so much of him has disappeared. With Mom, I felt we were what we were supposed to be. But with Dad, there’s an almost unbearable weight in the silence between us, if that makes sense. 

Please understand he’s not the villain here, and I don’t see myself as a victim. I’ve never been someone who exists easily in close spaces. That’s a truth I own. 

The guilt of my detachment from him cripples me. Sends me spiraling into depression and particularly isolation. I try to see him more, but each visit, I sit in my car in the parking lot with chest pains and a sick feeling that continues until the visit is over. Then, I cry after I leave. The cracks widen. 

But the other day, things went differently. I said, “I love you,” as I turned to walk away from Dad. The words just slipped out on their own and surprised me. My steps quickened toward the door. I don’t know if Dad heard me, but I felt a warmth inside—a touch of closeness. 

Wouldn’t it be wonderful and yet tragic too if he could finally feel an attachment to and from me as his life is ending? 

I think I will say, “I love you,” again next time.