Not Quite

(or The Sound of Heartbreak is Silence)

It’s the strangest feeling in the world, watching yourself completely disappear from someone else’s eyes. How the light that used to be there, no longer exists, as if it vanished overnight. It wasn’t that swift though. At least, not for me. It happened over a period of time. In June, I was there. Present. He was so proud of me. In October though, I became a stranger. Three months felt like the quickest inhale I’ve ever experienced. And I’m still waiting for the exhale. I honestly don’t feel like I’ve taken a solid breath since that heart shattering morning I visited my dad. It’s been nearly a year since that morning, and I’m just now realizing how much it has impacted my life.

My dad is now in the mid-late stage of Alzheimer’s. It’s been a decade since he was first diagnosed with Early-Onset. The last couple of years have been some of the hardest and easiest. We moved him into a home during a pandemic. He’s well taken care of, socialized, and safe. The disease’s speed has increased. His verbal skills have decreased. Part of me is grateful to be in this stage versus the one where he was aware that his memory was failing him. To watch someone be reminded of their cognitive decline every day is one of the most painful sights. At least now, he’s blissfully unaware. Or that’s what I tell myself. He’s in his own world most of the time. I just wish I could join him there.

This past Father’s Day, I brought him a stuffed owl and a pair of socks with cameras on them. My favorite book he used to read me was Owl Moon. We would go on walks all the time together. Just the two of us with our cameras, observing the world in our own ways.

I would give anything to go on a hike with him right now, or visit our favorite brewery, explore new towns and cities, or just sit on a porch with him, and watch the clouds roll by. Most of the time, when we were together, we wouldn’t even have to talk. We would sit in silence. Both of us only children, I guess we were always content being on our own, even together.

When I visited my dad last year, it was the first time he didn’t know me. After I left the home, I started writing a piece entitled The Sound of Heartbreak is Silence:

“It is one of the most painful experiences to have someone who has loved you for your entire life to stare at you as if you were a stranger. For me, it was with my dad. This terrible disease that is taking him away from me, and me away from him.

When he looked at me, past me, I have no idea what he said or any of the noises surrounding us. I saw myself vanish in his eyes. It was devastating. This man who held me up on a sometimes tedious pedestal most of my life. This man who would walk me around his office and introduce me to everyone, just so proud of who I was becoming. I’m still becoming. And he’s missing it. He has no idea who I am anymore, what goes on in my life, my hopes, dreams, accomplishments, failures. He can no longer provide advice to me.”

I’ve been struggling for 343 days with these feelings, which I’m still having trouble explaining. I’m here, but not here. I feel like I’m disappearing completely. I’ve shut down. My heart hurts most of the time. I question who I am without my dad. Without his guidance, humor, calm demeanor. But then, he’s still here. Gone, but not quite. Present, but not quite. In mourning, but not quite. I have to continue living my life, but not quite yet. Something keeps holding me back. Or many things.

Fear, regret, anger, guilt, exhaustion, sadness, depression, devastation, love.

I gave my dad the stuffed owl and pair of socks for Father’s Day, knowing full well he wouldn’t get the references. It didn’t matter to me. Well, the gifts mattered because I would still like to hold on to the idea of who he was and what we shared together before this disease got hold of him. That matters to me. I’ve had to let go of many things, but I am not ready to let go of that. I never will.

So while I might not be my father’s daughter in his eyes anymore, I will always be his daughter, confidant, advocate, and friend. I will strive to live the life he would want me to live, and to be the person he always saw me to be. My heart may continue to ache and often break, but I know my dad would want me to take a deep breath, exhale, and then procede to tell me to get back to what makes me happy.

Writing makes me happy. So I figured I would get back to that.