If we pay attention, we can learn a lot from the people we are closest to. This is a story of lessons from my dad’s dementia.

The first signs were small, but unsettling.

We noticed his hygiene slipping—stains on his clothes, and at times, he didn’t realize he had soiled himself. Then came the forgotten faucets. Twice, he left the bathroom sink running and flooded his bedroom. Soon after, his spending became erratic—overdrawing his account before his next Social Security payment came in. I started finding his daily medications scattered on the floor.

Concerned, we brought him to the doctor. The routine questions followed: What year is it? Who is the President? Can you repeat these words?

It was 2019, and Donald Trump was president—a fact my dad, a lifelong Republican, would never have forgotten. But he didn’t know. That was the moment I knew something was truly wrong.

Facing the Diagnosis

The diagnosis came: dementia, a form of Alzheimer’s. Suddenly, all those signs made painful sense.

At the time, he was living with me. But the reality set in quickly—he was a 250-pound man, and I was his daughter. As much as I loved him, I couldn’t be his full-time caregiver. That truth felt harsh, but necessary. We needed to find a place where he could be properly cared for.

Thankfully, my five siblings agreed. We began the process of finding a nursing home. When we told him, he seemed confused but not resistant—another quiet signal that his mind was slipping.

It was surprising, honestly. He had always told us, “Never put me in a nursing home. Kill me first.” But he agreed. And after months of paperwork and searching, he walked into the facility that would become his home for the next five years.

A New Chapter

At first, we kept up a rhythm—taking him out for breakfast and going for rides. He still had pieces of himself then.

But when COVID hit, the nursing home went into lockdown. We could only see him through the windows, waving and trying to explain what was happening. He couldn’t understand why we couldn’t come in. During that time, his mobility declined. He got used to the wheelchair, and when restrictions lifted, he no longer had the strength to stand.

Despite it all, he adapted. Over time, he came to enjoy the routine and familiarity of his new environment. The nursing home became his whole world. He forgot about the 13 years he had spent living with me. But he remained pleasant—friendly with the staff, happy with the meals, and content to wheel himself around the halls.

Letting Go of the Old Routine

In the early days, he stuck to his routine: breakfast, the newspaper, laying on his stomach to watch TV or play on his iPad, a nap, an outing to the Elks when possible, dinner, and more TV before bed.

But slowly, those rituals faded.
He stopped using his iPad. The newspaper gathered dust. Even the Minnesota Vikings—his favorite team—were forgotten.

His days became simple: sleep, wheel around, and, if the sun was shining, get outside.

Mr. Sunshine

He earned the nickname Mr. Sunshine because he would do anything to feel the warmth on his face. Living in Minnesota, he wasn’t going to let a single sunny day go to waste.

About six months before he passed, he began forgetting who I was. I’m the youngest of six, and I’ve read that the most recent memories are often the first to disappear. It made sense, but it still hurt.

One time, while looking at a picture of him with all six of his kids, someone asked if those were his children. He smiled and said, “All but one.”
When I asked, “Which one isn’t yours?”—he pointed at me.

That moment was a blow to the heart. I reminded myself it was the disease, not him. But it made visiting harder. He didn’t recognize me unless my sister was with me. Our conversations turned superficial. Sometimes, he even made excuses for me to leave.

The Final Days

Eventually, he stopped eating. He was placed on hospice care. His weight dropped to 130 pounds—nearly half his original size. Then came the final blow: a Norovirus outbreak swept through the facility. His body couldn’t recover.

He passed away peacefully, surrounded by my sisters and brother. He was 92.

What He Left Behind

My dad lived for pleasure—doing what he wanted, when he wanted. He made a lot of friends and was very successful. The last five years weren’t the life he would’ve chosen, but he still lived his best life.

In the end, I believe he’s in a better place. Reunited with my mom, Marvel, after 23 years. His soul, ready for the next adventure.

Our relationship had its murky parts. But I will miss him. And I’ll carry the lessons his life taught me. The most important one?

Live your life doing the things you love. You never know when that privilege will be taken away.

Rest in peace, Dad.
Love you more.