Most people think grief is a single, massive wave that hits you all at once when a person dies. But when your father has Alzheimer’s, grief isn’t a wave. It’s a leaky faucet. It’s a slow, rhythmic drip that drains the person away in tiny, agonizing installments.
My father didn’t die yesterday. But “Dad” has been leaving the building for five years.
The First Installment: The Keys The first payment was small. It was the afternoon he couldn’t remember how to get home from the hardware store he’d visited every Saturday for thirty years. He called me, sounding annoyed rather than scared. “The city changed the signs,” he complained. But the signs hadn’t changed. His internal compass had just lost its North. That day, I lost the version of my father who was the family navigator.
The Second Installment: The Stories A year later, the “Greatest Hits” started to skip. My dad was a storyteller; he could tell you the play-by-play of the 1985 Chicago Bears season or the exact moment he realized he wanted to marry my mother. Then, he started forgetting the endings. He’d get halfway through a joke and his eyes would go vacant—a dial tone in human form.
I learned to finish the jokes for him. We both laughed, but the laughter felt like paper. I was grieving the family historian.
The Third Installment: The Name This was the most expensive installment. I walked into his room with a coffee, and he looked at me with a polite, distant kindness. It was the look you give a waiter who brings the wrong order but you’re too nice to complain.
“Thank you, dear,” he said. “Are you one of the new nurses?”
The air left the room. I wasn’t his daughter anymore; I was a helpful stranger. I went to the bathroom and cried until my ribs hurt. That was the day I lost my identity in his eyes.
The Final Payment Now, we are in the endgame. He is physically here—his hands are still calloused, his hair is still that stubborn silver—but the man who taught me how to change a tire and how to stand up for myself is gone. He’s been paid out, bit by bit, to a disease that has no interest in a refund.
People say, “I’m so sorry for your loss” when the heart stops beating. But I’ve been losing him for 1,825 days. I’ve said goodbye to his humor, his advice, his memory, and his voice.
By the time we actually have the funeral, I’ll have nothing left to give. I’m already bankrupt.
If you are going through the “long goodbye,” know that it is okay to mourn the living. It is okay to be tired of the installments.