New Memories?

Writing this blog has been one of the hardest things I’ve tried to do. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because there are so many layers to my relationship with my dad. He has Alzheimer’s now, and while that’s a heavy enough diagnosis on its own, the weight is different when the relationship wasn’t perfect to begin with.

Alzheimer’s runs in my family. My grandma—his mom—had it, too. Sometimes I wonder if it’s only a matter of time before I end up with it myself. My memory isn’t the best already, and while I don’t want to speak that over my life, I know it’s a possibility.

But back to my dad.

My dad and I haven’t always had the best relationship. To be honest, it often felt like he never wanted a daughter. He’s always been obsessed with my brother. He’s the firstborn, the boy, the junior. The golden child. I was on the sidelines. I even joke about it sometimes, though the truth is, it’s not really funny.

There were times when I stopped talking to him altogether. The last straw came when I was getting ready to deploy. He promised to visit me before I left, but instead, he chose Mardi Gras in Louisiana. We argued, I hung up, and I didn’t hear from him for months. And when the silence stretched on, I realized something: I was the only one holding a grudge. I was the only one hurt. That gave him power over me. So I forgave him, not because he apologized. He never has, and I don’t think he ever will. I chose to forgive him because I couldn’t keep carrying it.

And then came the diagnosis.

Now, my dad calls me every day. If I don’t answer, he calls back immediately. Sometimes it’s late at night, sometimes it’s early in the morning. He forgets about the three-hour time difference between us. To him, it doesn’t matter. And as much as I can, I answer.

I answer because he doesn’t remember the pain he caused. He doesn’t remember the neglect, the favoritism, the birthdays forgotten, the gifts that went to my brother while I got a card. He doesn’t remember telling me, at 15, that he didn’t want me to live with him, that I should just stay with my mom. He doesn’t remember how bad that hurt when my brother asked the same thing and he sent him a plane ticket

But I remember.

And that’s the hard part. He has Alzheimer’s, so in his mind, I’m his loving daughter. I’m Daddy’s girl. And sometimes I let myself lean into that version of reality, even though it hurts, because it’s what he believes.

As much as I’ve tried to forgive the past, those memories don’t just go away. They sit with me, even while I answer the phone and listen to his voice, even while I let him believe in the relationship he’s created in his mind.

In a couple of weeks, he’s coming to visit me with my aunt. And I’m actually looking forward to it. Because maybe, just maybe, it’s not too late to have a relationship with my dad. Even if he won’t remember it for long, maybe I will.

He may forget the past, the details, even me one day, but I’ll always remember both versions of my dad: the one who hurt me, and the one who now calls me every day just to hear my voice. And it’s so bittersweet.

Thanks for being here. I’m so glad you came.

-from somewhere in the chaos 🌻