Today is my dad’s 91st birthday. My wish for him—what all of us would desperately love to give him, is the gift of peace and comfort. I think he knows he is loved by his family and friends, but it still falls short of what he really needs. 

In this case, love just isn’t enough.

This weekend marks the third anniversary of my mother’s death. She’d had dementia, and in her final years she slept a lot and showed little interest in anything. Her form of dementia seemed different than Alzheimer’s. Her personality never changed all that much. She remained as sweet as she had always been. I think she knew us kids—sort of—at lest she knew we were all somehow related.

She was most closely connected, though, to my dad. She wanted to know where he was at all times. “Where’s Daddy?”she would ask repeatedly if he wasn’t nearby. (Interestingly, “Daddy” was not a term she’d ever used in referring to him until the dementia set in.)

She always appeared comfortable as long as she knew he was close.

Had she lived two months longer, they would have celebrated 68 years of marriage.

And now, three years later, my dad still struggles to keep it all straight. The thing is, he is dealing with his own age-related dementia and is no longer able to think clearly.

For the past two years he has resided in an assisted-living facility.

When he is there, he wants to move back to the farm. When we go to the farm, he often refuses to go inside, knowing it is not the same without Mom. Over and over he asks, “Where is your mother? What happened to her? Was I there? I don’t remember her death or the funeral or anything about it. Why can’t I remember any of it?” 

Sometimes he calls the farm expecting Mom to answer the phone. He worries about her. He recently told me he wanted to move back home as soon as he was good enough so that Mom could take care of him.

When we gently remind him again and again that she’s gone, he understands—but only for a second. Then moments later we repeat it all again.

His loneliness is gut-wrenching. 

One of us kids visits every weekend, and we’ve hired a remarkable caregiver who takes him out several times during the week. Plus, old neighbors and friends sometimes come to visit. Unfortunately, he recalls none of it. Despite our efforts and intentions, there seems to be no way out for him.

He remains mired in his loss and his grief, feeling miserably lost and alone.

For Dad’s birthday, I bought a couple new shirts to spruce up his wardrobe.  I was thinking of how mom used to buy all his clothes and even lay them out for him each day. These days he puts on the same ones day after day unless someone guides him.

So we’ll all give him little gifts—things to make him look better or things to try to stimulate his mind. But the whole time we’re all thinking the same thing—how much we’d be willing to pay if we could just gift-wrap comfort.

Happy birthday, Papa.