I remember the day my Nanny’s cranberry Buick pulled into our driveway. I must have been in high school. I was happy to see her, but the moment she stepped out of the car, I could tell something was wrong.
She was holding a basket filled with all of her medications. She stood there looking down at them, confused, unable to figure them out. There was worry in her voice, something that was never common for my Nanny.
That moment has stayed with me all these years because, looking back now, it was one of the first signs that something wasn’t right. Over the years that followed, her memory declined. There was more confusion. Less independence. More blank stares.
This morning when I dropped the girls off at my parents’ house, my dad was walking the dogs. “What’s wrong?” I asked as I ushered the girls into the house.
“I just messed up my pills,” he said, worry written all over his face.
I asked if he needed help. “I’ll figure it out,” he said. I let my dad know that I could help him that evening if he couldn’t figure it out. “No big deal,” I said, a phrase I use a lot with him.
Later that evening, after I dropped Adi off at soccer, I drove down my parents’ street on the way to the dance studio to pick up Rose. As my parents’ house came into view, I remembered the pill situation. I called my dad. “Did you ever figure out those pills?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “It doesn’t matter.
“I’m right on your street,” I said as I turned around to head back in the direction of their house I had just passed. “I can help you.”
I spent the next few minutes helping my dad systematically ensure he had the right pills and the correct number in each tiny compartment of his medicine organizer. As he walked me to my car afterwards, he thanked me for my help. “No big deal,” I assured him as I gave him a hug. “I’m happy to help you.”
As I drove away, I thought about my Nanny standing in our driveway all those years ago with that basket of pills in her hands. I’ve tried to remember how things unfolded after that-what got hard next, what memories were lost, when she stopped using our names, or even talking.
I try to stay in the present, showing my dad the patience and love he deserves, while at the same time feeling a quiet, persistent fear of losing him.
Where There Is Joy 
This slice is raw truth. Stages that we are never ready to face – but you are handling it with grace and love, and that is a thing of beauty.
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Sending you much love. I am having more and more of those thoughts about my mom and I live soooo far away that I am not there to support. I will have just over a week this summer to get the measure of the current state, but know that it can vary at any moment.
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Oof. What a powerful slice, filled with love and concern. You so deftly weave the connection between past, present and the unknown future. Wishing you all the best as you move forward.
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staying present and be a caring daughter is the best you can do—which you are, every day. He will
Always, no matter what, know your voice and your love in his heart, because you are always there and always will be.
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The love you have for your parents is so big! You are an amazing daughter. Taking care of our parents is emotional. Sending you a big 20 second hug!
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Thanks. ❤️
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This is so hard. I’m glad you are able to help your dad and that he lets you help him. Sending you hugs.
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So much feeling in this slice. I’m sure your dad was feeling all the love. Sending you positivity and love!
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I feel this. I lived this. My heart goes out to you and your dad because we know this road is not easy.
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Your slice makes me wonder about the ways the universe may try to prepare us for uncertainty in the future. Recalling the situation with your Nanny and her medication and connecting it to your father’s confusion feels like one such moment. Wishing you and your dad all the best as you navigate a new now.
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oh so much is said here. I have been through those times. No big deal and yet it is. Thinking of you and glad you are there and close by! Take Care!
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A strong slice. I love the opening image and the closing sencence. In between, you capture so much love and patience.
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This piece is so powerfully written, Jess. My heart aches as I read your words—for both the past and the unknown future. Hoping you have the gift of many good days and memories with your dad ahead of you.
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