My Dad, Dementia, and the Things We Don’t Forget

In the end, all we want is to be remembered.

Dad and me. I had to tickle him to get that smile. Photo is a selfie by the author.

“Do they remember me?” Dad asks me, brows furrowed.

It’s midwinter break, and I’m visiting Florida with my kids. Specifically, I’m in the memory care facility where my dad has resided since his second wife, Ruth, passed away in June 2022. I’m here alone, as my kids opted to stay with their grandma today, and I can’t blame them — she’s taking them swimming. And grandpa visits make them uncomfortable.

Pre-dementia, my dad was difficult. Volatile, misogynistic, and prone to yelling, I made my peace with his limitations and maintained a consistent yet distant presence over the years. He lives in Florida and I’m in Seattle, so it was easy.

Then his cognitive decline began, followed by his wife’s death. I flew cross-country on a day’s notice and had the unenviable task of finding a memory care for him in under a week, and then extricating him from the home he’d known for 35 years and tricking him into a locked nursing ward.

It was an excruciating time, one I’ll never forget.

Or will I?

Looking at my dad, I can’t be sure.

But I can reassure him of one thing. “Of course they remember you,” I say. “You’re their…