My dad, once an independent and hardworking man who drove trucks across the country, cooked for the family, and took care of everything, has slowly lost his ability to do even the simplest tasks.
Many years ago, I made a promise to my dad—I vowed to do everything in my power to keep him out of a nursing home. When he got sick 15 years ago, that promise was put to the test. And in these last few months, more than ever, it has been challenged in ways I never could have imagined.
Yet, here we are, 15 years later, and somehow, we’ve managed to keep him home with us.
I haven’t spoken much about how things have changed—not just over the last 15 years, but especially in the past six months. My dad went from being a man who drove a semi-truck across the country, spending weeks on the road and fueling up regularly, to someone who now stands at a gas station with me, unsure of what to do.
He went from always having a fresh pot of coffee brewing to not knowing how to make one most days.
He went from being the family chef to someone who isn’t allowed near the stove unless someone is right there, watching his every move.
He went from passing every rigorous physical exam with ease to struggling to walk 30 feet without stumbling or falling.
He went from always being the driver—the one who took us everywhere—to not having sat behind the wheel in years.
He went from teaching me how to meticulously detail semi-trucks (and if you knew him, you’d know how particular he was about his trucks and their chrome) to not even knowing how to wash a single plate.
He went from taking care of the yard, mowing the lawn, and handling all the outdoor work to not even being able to push a mower or hold a weed eater. (Thankfully, he taught me all of it when I was growing up.)
When I was younger, I had so many dreams of what my future would look like—of having a family and watching my dad teach his grandchildren everything he once taught me. But reality looks nothing like what I imagined.
This is my reality now.
- Feeding him.
- Picking him up after fall after fall.
- Helping him shower.
- Shaving him.
- Making his coffee.
- Helping him dress.
- Putting his socks and shoes on for him.
- Walking behind him all day, holding a gait belt for support.
- Signing his name on papers because he can’t.
- Reading things to him in a way he can understand.
- Providing care every single day.
Some days, it’s hard. Really, really hard. Some days, I want to scream, cry, or just break down.
And through it all, he constantly apologizes for the life we now live, and he thanks me for everything I do.
But I just hope—more than anything—that one day he truly understands: I would do it all over again. A million times. Without hesitation.
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