Many, many years ago, I made a promise to my dad—a promise that no matter what, I would do everything in my power to keep him out of a care home. At the time, I didn’t truly understand what that promise would demand of me, or how life would test it. But fifteen years ago, when he fell seriously ill, that promise became a mission. And in the last few months, it has been tested like never before.
Fifteen years later, against the odds, we’ve managed to keep him here, at home, with us. I haven’t shared much about how things have changed—not only in the last fifteen years, but especially in the last six months. The man I grew up knowing, who once drove a semi across the country and spent weeks on the road, filling fuel tanks and maintaining every detail of his trucks with obsessive care, is now a man who struggles with the simplest of tasks.
He used to brew coffee every morning, the aroma filling the house like a warm hug. Now, some days, he doesn’t even know how to start the pot. He used to be the chef, orchestrating every meal; now he isn’t allowed near the stove without someone watching his every move. He passed every physical challenge with flying colors in his prime, but today, walking thirty feet without stumbling can feel impossible.
He was the chauffeur of our lives, the one who taught me how to clean and polish trucks until every chrome detail gleamed. Today, he cannot even wash a plate without help. He used to tend the lawn and master every task outside, yet now he cannot push a mower or hold a weedeater. Thank goodness he taught me those things when I was growing up—lessons I now carry forward on his behalf.
I grew up dreaming of how my life would unfold, of the children I would raise, and the joy of having my dad teach his grandchildren everything he knew. But reality has been so different from those dreams. My reality is one of caregiving. My reality is feeding him when he cannot feed himself. My reality is helping him after falls that happen more often than I could have imagined. My reality is assisting with showers, shaving, dressing, putting on socks and shoes, and walking behind him all day with a gait belt for safety.
I read things aloud to him, helping him understand what he cannot decipher alone. I sign forms for him because his hands cannot do it. I provide the everyday care that our lives now revolve around. Some days are incredibly hard. I want to yell. I want to scream. I want to cry. And yet, even in his struggle, he constantly apologizes for the life we now live together and thanks me for everything I do.
But he doesn’t need to apologize. Every act of care, every moment spent assisting him, every tear shed is a continuation of my promise. A promise I would keep again, a million times over, without hesitation. Because he is my dad, and love has always been stronger than any challenge life could throw at us.
This is our reality. It is hard, exhausting, and relentless. And yet, it is also full of love, patience, and unspoken gratitude that words could never fully capture.
