I Hope I Never Forget My Dad
My dad died. I want to tell you about him because, really, he’s the reason you and I know each other. If I didn’t grow up watching my dad do every home repair, remodel, installation, and upgrade by himself, I doubt I would be the (albeit lazy) DIYer I am today. And wtf would I even be (occasionally) blogging about? No one cares about my yarn collection.
He Could Fix Anything
Growing up, I’m not sure I even knew there was such a thing as calling a stranger to come to your house and fix things for you. My dad took care of everything. He was an engineer, electrician, architect, carpenter, machinist, mason, and, professionally, a mechanic. He really was a jack of all trades.
A “Ron” of all trades, actually. His name was Ron.
My father was intelligent, logical, and resourceful. He taught me to problem solve and to work smarter, not harder. He was a lot like MacGyver. Give the man some duct tape and a Hershey bar and… well, he’d eat the Hershey bar (he really liked sweets…), but he could build you a freaking bicycle with that duct tape.
He Liked to Win
I remember one time, when miscreants ran over our mailbox, he welded a giant new one out of quarter inch thick steel and cemented the post six feet into the ground. The little flag on the side weighed about three pounds. The door was so heavy, I wasn’t strong enough to get the mail until I was fifteen.
The next time those jerks tried to pick a fight, we found mangled Honda parts scattered across our driveway. It makes me smile to think of how stunned they must have been, getting wrecked by a mailbox.
Dad-1 Miscreants-0
He Was His Own Man
I learned to be my own person from my dad. He was not a follower. He was unaffected by peer pressure. He never cared what the “in” crowd was doing. In fact, he never cared about the crowd at all.
He wasn’t a leader either though. The truth is my dad was a little weird. Besides his dislike of almost everything stereotypically manly (sports, fishing, beer, jerky), he wasn’t very social. He did his own thing and he didn’t care if anyone thought he was an oddball. If he were a man who danced (he wasn’t), it would’ve been to the beat of his own drum.
Or to John Denver, maybe. He liked John Denver.
He Thought Cars Were Cool
He also liked cars. No, that’s dumb. He loved cars. He was PASSIONATE! about cars and literally owned close to a hundred different ones throughout his life, but only one or two at a time. Our driveway was practically a conveyor belt.
Why so many? He was obsessed with “the chase”. He’d set his sights on a classic beauty, pursue it, lock it down, and then he’d get bored before the ink on the title was dry and move on to the next one. My dad was a car casanova. A car-sanova, if you will. Love ’em and leave ’em.
Well, sell ’em. Often for less than he paid. (This was not a lucrative hobby for my dad…)
He Was Really Good at Racquetball
My father loved science, history, and animal kingdom documentaries on TV. (You know, the boring shows when you’re ten and you want to watch The Love Boat.)
He took a lot of naps.
He enjoyed The Waltons, Elvis gospel music, bicycle rides, and black raspberry ice cream. He was the parent I went to whenever I thought I was dying. He was the one I could discuss aliens with. He was the one who taught me how to change a tire and how to drive a stick shift.
He’s Why I Am Amazing
My dad always believed I was capable and so I was. I have confidence in my abilities because my dad had confidence in me. I never doubt I can accomplish anything because my dad never doubted I could.
You have my dad to thank for my near 100% success rating in everything I attempt to do so that I can then blog about it all for your reading entertainment pleasure. (Occasionally.)
My Father Had Dementia
It’s hard to say when dad’s illness began. As I mentioned, he was always a little weird so, when he got weirder, we figured that was his normal aging process.
It wasn’t.
When he randomly pulled an electric razor out of his pants pocket (not a portable one, mind you, a full sized jobbie…) while in the doctor’s office and started shaving his face like he was in a Norelco commercial, we could no longer deny it. That wasn’t just a power move. My father had dementia.
The Longest Goodbye
His decline was painfully slow.
Dementia is a thief that robs your house one item at a time. At first, you don’t notice when random trinkets and tchotchkes go missing, but eventually more important things begin to disappear. Precious things. Essential things. It’s only then that you realize there’s a heist in progress.
I’ve been grieving the loss of my father for years now because that’s how long it’s taken this lethargic thief to rob him blind.
Six months ago, it finally became too difficult to care for my father at home, so we had to move him to an assisted living facility. During his evaluation for admission, he was handed a pen and asked to write something.
Anything.
Without prompting, he chose to write “I Like Life”. Even with advanced dementia, in spite of all he had already lost to his disease, he still liked life.
That was the last thing he ever wrote. I can’t imagine a better last thing.
I don’t want to spend too much time on who he was at the end. That nice, old man was barely my dad. Sure, he was kind and gentle, compassionate, generous with his imaginary money (he was a fictitious millionaire), and bore a striking resemblance to him, but he was missing so much of what made my dad my dad.
The last time I saw my father was a week before he died. He was glad to see me. He knew who I was. He made a silly dad joke. (When I asked him what was new, he paused, smiled, and replied, “New York!”) He ate a hot dog. We took a walk outside and sat in the sun. I think my father was happy. He liked life.
Though my father’s brain was failing him, his body did not appear to be. I thought I would have to watch this insidious disease dismantle him piece by piece, but mercifully, that was not God’s plan.
I lost my father twice. Once over the course of about eight years. The second time was on February 16, 2024, only hours after suffering a stroke. He never regained consciousness and died peacefully.
Car guy that he was, I like to think that my dad saw the road ahead was full of potholes, so he took the exit ramp.
In a way, I have him back now. I was so used to the man he became in the end that I forgot who he was before he got sick. Since his passing, all of my old memories of him have begun to resurface, resurrecting the man who has been gone for so long.
I have missed him. I will miss him.
Since my dad’s illness, I am hyper-aware of my own brain. Every time I lose a word or forget what day it is, I panic. Will I get dementia? I don’t know. Maybe I will. I am, after all, my father’s daughter.
I’m doing everything in my power to reduce my risk, but if I do get dementia, I hope I still like life. And I hope I never forget my dad. He never forgot me.
***
Six months ago, in honor of my dad, I began raising money for the Cure Alzheimer’s Fund. If you would like to help, shirts featuring his last written sentence, I Like Life, in his own addled handwriting, may be purchased here. A variety of colors and styles are available. This is not for profit. All proceeds will go to curealz.org.
56 Comments
Denise
So sorry. Dealing with similar circumstances myself. Hang in there and please keep writing. I adore your sense of humor. ????
Natasha
Beautiful post and tribute. Absolutely beautiful.
V
Hi, I was thinking of you today, and I hope you and your family are doing as well as possible.
Hugs,
V
LaFawne
Love and hugs sent your way. Went through this years ago, and I still remember the daily pain of seeing them slip away. Dementia in any form is indeed a slow moving thief. It takes and takes and takes. One of the most cruel diseases, IMO. I am eternally grateful for my memories. Our loved ones live on in our hearts, and one day we will do the same in our descendants(hopefully).
Life goes on- trite but so true. Again, big hugs from an internet follower-
Missy
Beautiful tribute to a beautiful life. The only thing I can do is send you a hug. Hug sent. Love you my friend.
Marcia King
You will never forget your Dad. What a beautiful tribute. Thank you for allowing us to share your grief.
Susan Kenney
Vicki, Your writing…so beautiful…it brought tears and smiles to my heart at the same time…the photos take me back to all the visits Uncle Rick and I made to your home…he and I were the “kids” Rick being your mom’s youngest brother…and your Dad was there for us for all our questions about buying a first home…without any prompting he came to use his experience to check all the subtle details to make sure that everything was sound with any house we wanted to purchase…and even after moving into our new home we went to him with numerous questions of how to do this and how to do that…he and Uncle Rick spent hours with the cars for sure…he was always so calm and welcoming that the first time I met him I felt like I had always known him…that photo of him dancing with you when you were little at our wedding (very special)…and that photo of him taking those extra moments with you even when he was busy staining the back porch…he loved you kids so much…keep writing Vicki…keep sharing bits and pieces of your life with your dad with all of us…you will never forget him…he will always be in your heart… Love ya’, Aunt Sue
Cindy
What a beautiful tribute. You made me laugh and you made me cry. You made me think about my own father – so similar.
I wish I could have known your father.
I will love wearing my tshirt in his memory and in a fight to end this insidious disease.
Kimberly Smith Sliger
My heart goes out to you. I had the unfortunately similar experience with my Dad. He was my hero, he could do anything. People would say” Oh, Larry is a Jack of all trades!” My humorous Dad would inevitably respond with the comment,
“And a Master of none!”
Others simply excepted his response as the truth and would let it go, but in reality, Dad was a Master Mason, Master Mechanic of all motorized things and he was also a Master Carpenter. He simply had issues with electoral and plumbing, lol.
It took me four years to convince his wife to take him to the VA for diagnosis, that was after another four years of me and one of her daughters fighting to get any type on non medical help to stop his decline of mind.
It hurt so much to go over to the house and have Dad not be able to identify a brake wrench, I needed to change my brakes. Dad handed me a Phillips screwdriver, which when I said what it was he merely stated, “Just testing you, Kid!”
It broke my heart to see him not recognize me, and nearly destroyed me when he couldn’t walk me down the aisle for my wedding.
I have never recovered from his passing. Part of me went when he did, but I can say I am blessed because the best parts of him stayed with me.
I treasure the sound of his voice in my head.
The words often said while teaching me to figure out mechanical things for myself.
“Slow down to go fast!”
Which meant to learn fully what I was doing before I even thought to “hurry” along in the process.
You post was a reflection for me as well. I really appreciate you taking the time to let us visit your Dad with you.
Love your work as well. lol, afterthought, was lost in my thoughts and apologies for the delay of appreciating your own skills and artistic talent.
SH
Such a long difficult journey to an even more difficult end. I believe that this post expresses what many of us could not find words to say in our own similar circumstances. Thanks for sharing this emotional and warm tribute.
Marianne
I am so sorry for the loss of your father. ????Your beautiful writing about your father touched my heart. He sure sounded like an awesome father/man and that you learned many practical things from him. His interests remind me so much of my own father who passed away 9 years ago. My father could fix anything, and I mean anything! We never had repair men at our house, ever! He even built an experimental airplane on a budget and won first place at the EAA fly in at Oshkosh, Wisconsin in the 70’s. How lucky are we both to have grown up with such wonderful men as our fathers. Your post has inspired me to write about my Dad in my journal so that I won’t ever forget his qualities. Thank you. I can only imagine your father was so happy that you are a diyer! He must have been so proud. May you carry his memory in your thoughts every day. And may you continue to be a diyer, just like your father. Take care.
Marianne
Those ???? In the first line showed up accidentally in my post. So sorry for the error.
Debby
This was so touching. I’m sorry for your loss. My dad meant a lot to me as well.
Barbara H.
So hard. Beautiful tribute. Wonderful memories – you were so lucky in that. Thanks for sharing your memories.
Susan K
I can promise you, you will NEVER forget…
????????????
Susan K
I put sad faces, because I was in tears…and it came up as question marks… don’t know why.
Michelle
My mom had dementia too. I get it. I’m sorry for your loss.
Karen
I found your site looking for ways to get on a roof. Tomorrow I have to climb onto the roof of my crappy house to clean my valleys and gutters of leaves before winter starts in Australia. I’m also scared of heights.
Normally my partner would’ve done this. This was our crappy house. But he died on March 18. He killed himself. I have no idea how I’m going to survive without him. But I have to for our kids. So I better not fall off the roof.
I’m so sorry you lost your dad. Losing someone sucks. Grief sucks. But your dad shaped you into the resilient and resourceful person you are. I’m hoping I can also be resilient and resourceful so that I can take on everything that my partner did for us.
Heather
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Robin Datin
Hi V,
Glad to hear from you, it has been awhile. I am so sorry to hear of yor loss. You truly honored his memory with your post.
Em Dirre
Oh, Vickiann… so very sorry for your loss.
What a beautiful tribute you have penned for your pop. Thank you for sharing your memories of him with those of us who have never had the privilege.
Joan
My deepest sympathies on your loss. While my father didn’t pass from dementia, it was no less painful to lose him suddenly. Sounds like we had similar childhoods in that we both watched our fathers build and fix things and that had a big impression on us. My dad was a carpenter and I loved watching him build things. He also did what he could to fix his vehicles, etc. My mom also would fix things, but around the house, rather than do the big stuff. It why I do what I can on my own, as well. Calling repairmen only came when we needed the TV serviced (remember when you could have one come to the house to fix the TV??). When I bought my crappy house, I put on my “dad hat” and looked every house over, trying to view it via Dad’s eyes and determine if things were such that I could fix them, etc. I got the stamp of approval two years after I got it, he passed a month later.
Ellen Shook
What a beautiful piece you have written to honor your father. I went through this with my mother. All her five siblings also had this awful disease, as did her mother, and her mother’s father. There hace been many others in my orbit who have finished life this way. I have to tell you you that this is the hardest thing in the world you will ever experience, with the possible exception of losing a child. It is a blessing that all those old memories seem to wash over you after a parent dies, and it often comes in waves for years afterward. I wrote a book about my mother about three years after she died, and it was cathartic. With your talent for writing, maybe you might want to think about doing that, even if you never publish it.
Cheryl
My heart and prayers go out to you and your family!
M. Yardley
I loved your blog about your dad! I am so sorry for your loss. He sounds like he was a great father! It’s so good to hear about those kinds of dads. Good to hear about how he loved, cheered and encouraged you. I had a father like that too that I lost last year. You and I were blessed. Keep writing!
franc
thank you for writing and posting pics about your dear dad. i get it, every step, mine so similar, addicted to cars, buy high sell low, odd, yadda yadda, strangely handy, and then the demon dementia landed in him. and i choose to remember his hilarious razor whip smart side, the ending was so unbearable and so long and we knew he wouldn’t have wanted to have been this guy to the world, the guy he was the last years. anyway, thank you thank you, and love your crappy hilarious house bizness.
Judy Ann England
So, so sorry for your loss. I too lost my father to dementia in 2013. I hope writing about it was theraputic for you. I know I missed your DIy adventures and your sense of humor. Glad to have you back!
Vicky Vicky Vicky
Gentle thoughts for all who are navigating the loss of a beloved person in their life.
Be kind to yourself .
Betty
I know it’s been a year, but I have been in your shoes and I know you are still grieving. I feel for you. And *I* care about your yarn collection.