I'm guiding children and supporting my dad with Alzheimer's. They all rely on me together.

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In December 2018, my mom sent a group text suggesting a phone call. She held the results from my dad's evaluation. He had requested that she share the information.

My dad, who dedicated his life to helping others, could not face telling his children himself. His cognitive assessment scored 17 out of 30.

By November 2019, the diagnosis became confirmed. I lived in Brooklyn, eight months along with my first child, standing in the kitchen with my husband preparing a meal, when the call arrived. My dad had Alzheimer's.

He received the diagnosis at age 66

My dad lived as a reserved person. Truly modest. A well-regarded otolaryngologist who established a free clinic for uninsured individuals, journeyed to Guatemala to construct an orphanage and deliver medical aid to isolated areas, and helped at the neighborhood shelter. He performed these acts without seeking attention.

He kept his feelings private, yet he read and wrote often. Journals, notes, and page edges filled with his reflections. Writing served as his quiet space to understand life. Physical activity provided his release for well-being. He maintained order in all things. He taught us we would never misplace items if we returned them properly. I recall his words each time I share this lesson while tidying with my children.

He stayed fit. And just six years into his early retirement, at age 66, he confronted Alzheimer's.

My dad accomplished many fine deeds without notice. And it was only when I settled at his desk that I understood how much more about him remained unknown.

My dad is fading away

Last Thanksgiving, we returned to my childhood home to empty it ahead of the sale. I invited my dad to review his desk with me. He glanced at some papers and quietly stepped aside. So I sat on the floor beside it.

A large white desk, orderly as he always arranged items. A corkboard filled with cards, sayings, and expressions. Small objects from his medical office. An entire life, thoughtfully organized.

I began opening files. Each carried a precise label: quotes, book concepts, Bible study, meaning of life, patient notes of thanks. I examined all he wrote, highlighted, circled, noted in the edges. I had turned into his keeper of recollections, learning about him in ways conversations no longer allowed. And there remained so much more I wished to discover.

My dad received his Alzheimer's diagnosis while I carried my first child. Now I carry my third, raising two children who explore their world, while aiding a dad who loses his sense of self.

I parent in two directions at once

During meals, I slice food for my 3-year-old, prompting him to stay seated and eat. Then I turn to do the same for my dad.

I enroll my children in classes and arrange support for my dad.

Ensuring all stay secure, nourished, and never unattended. Observing growth and loss at the same time. I sense the need to exist in two spots together, since at times life truly requires it.

My dad no longer starts conversations on his own. So I arrange them. I set toys on the surface. I position Beckett beside Papa with a story. I hold onto the brief moments they share before attention shifts.

When my dad draws with my 6-year-old, my thoughts move between the skilled surgeon he once was and the person trying to keep colors inside the lines. Violet glances up and wonders why Papa colors that way. I explain that is how imagination appears; each person does it uniquely. Shielding my dad from embarrassment and explaining to my daughter.

My children view his habits as charming and amusing, and I attempt to view them that way as well. Yet when we are by ourselves, they pose tougher questions. Will you grow old like Papa? Why does Papa place his knife in his drink? I have become the explainer of puzzling actions.

I remain between starts and finishes

Last summer at my childhood lake house, my parents could visit only briefly. When departure time came, our family gathered in the driveway. We observed their car depart. Just as my children begin forming memories there, I doubt my dad will return. And as new phases begin in my life, I keep ending others in his. Pulled between openings and closings.

Most days, I maintain a front, grieving in private while showing steadiness in public. I do not want my dad to see me constantly sorrowful. I want my children to experience the happiness of family time. So I carry it.

Yet one evening after my parents departed our home, I tucked the children in, weeping. Violet questioned why. I said I felt sad about Papa.

She met my eyes and said, "Mom, let me share something. You have a heart, and Papa will look inside it."

I embraced her more closely and replied softly, "You are correct."

My dad often said connections matter most. I ensure my children understand it as well.

I'm guiding children and supporting my dad with Alzheimer's. They all rely on me together.

He received the diagnosis at age 66

My dad is fading away

I parent in two directions at once

I remain between starts and finishes

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