Father’s Day in the shadow of dementia | Opinion

Father’s Day is hard, but not because my dad is gone. Well, he is and he isn’t. He has dementia.

Cindy, my stepmom, called with the news in the summer of 2020. My Dad, Charles, had been displaying symptoms for a few years, but we all wrote it off. Maybe his hearing was going. Maybe his memory was getting fuzzy. Or so we thought.

His diagnosis came at the height of the pandemic shutdown, and no one was going anywhere. After an excruciatingly long wait, I got vaccinated and started making plans to take him on a trip the next summer. Should we road-trip to the “Field of Dreams” in Iowa? No, my stepmom cautioned me, Dad is changing.

Instead, in June 2021, I flew from Los Angeles to their home in Delray Beach, and I settled on a Tampa Bay Rays homegame against the Washington Nationals, which required a 3 1/2 hour car ride across the state. For the first time in my life, I was taking care of my dad. I made all the arrangements. A hotel. A tee time. Tickets to a ballgame.

I borrowed my stepmom’s car, and we hit the road. I filled the car with music I knew he would like. Tom Petty, The Eagles, Bruce Springsteen. “Ants Marching” by the Dave Matthews Band came on and my dad slapped his knee and sang along. Maybe a part of him was still intact.

We got to the hotel, changed and walked to get dinner. It was hot. I worried he was getting uncomfortable but couldn’t express it. Without the sonic wallpaper of music, the quiet of our walk was deafening.

How was he feeling? “Fine.” More silence.

“How would you feel if you had to live in a memory care facility? Like Grandma?” “We’ll see,” he said. “Maybe later.”

The next day started with golf. It was a bust. Next was lunch in Tampa’s historic Ybor City.

I suggested we get our spouses a souvenir. “That’s a good idea.” We went into an antique store, and it hit me: Dad would never get my stepmom another gift on his own. He would never buy her flowers or surprise her with an anniversary trip. I felt unspeakably sad for her.

That night was the game. By now I knew how much Dad had changed. I tried not to call attention to it. Still, Dad paid attention the whole game. It was the most peaceful I had seen him during the trip. It was a tight game but the home team won.

We went back to the car. A torrential Florida rainstorm started. I put on the radio and drove slowly. It rained so hard I considered pulling off. Even though I was with my Dad, I was on my own.

In the years since, I’ve gone back and visited as much as I can. Each time he’s worse. Last September, he moved into a memory care facility. I’ve spent the last five years grieving — the loss of his cognitive function, his personality, his ability to contribute to my life and the world around him.

When I first learned the news, I told my wife what hurt most was running out of time. In my heart was a list of experiences I hoped we would share

We were not candid with our feelings, Dad and me. But during the last five years I’ve opened up. I thanked him for all the things he’s given me. I thanked him for supporting my decision to move to L.A. and chase a dream. He did see me get married, and I knew then just how precious those moments can be.

This year I’ll go see the Los Angeles Dodgers play and I’ll think about him every game. I’ll keep score just as he taught me and make memories with my wife and friends. He won’t be there, and yet he will.

It’s exactly what he would want for his son.

Bradley Maurer grew up in Coral Springs. He’s the production coordinator of Grey’s Anatomy and lives in Los Angeles.