It’s been a week since my father passed, and I’m having trouble finding words for what’s happening inside of me.
When I’m approaching a monumental life threshold, I usually have at least some emotional awareness of what’s coming. But this feels different. The day he died, I had this deep realization that both of my parents are now gone. It felt like a shift in my DNA. Something ancient and foundational moved inside of me, and that feeling sits underneath the actual grief. It’s like background noise humming beneath everything else.
Death is strange. The logistics surrounding it can feel even stranger. I can tell when people reach out that many of them don’t know what to say. Oddly enough, one of my favorite questions is the simplest: Tell me about your Dad.
So I will.
The past few years of his dementia felt like slowly dismantling a puzzle. Every few weeks, another piece would disappear. Over time, the person I knew only vaguely resembled who he once was.
My Dad was kind, bold, outgoing, and genuinely funny. He had a strong sense of personal style that embarrassed me as a child but that I’ve grown to deeply admire as an adult. It was not uncommon for him to pick me up from school in a Kelly green sport coat, navy and white patchwork pants, a custom white dress shirt, and brown leather penny loafers.
Even in memory care, the nurses told me he was the best-dressed person on the floor, often changing outfits several times a day. He loved having his initials stitched onto his shirt cuffs and his name embroidered inside the pockets of his sport coats.
Some things dementia just can’t take away.
He also never took himself too seriously. Once, he hosted a dinner party and secretly hid a fart machine in the dining room. As everyone sat down to eat, he kept pressing the remote and waiting. Tears streamed down his face from laughing so hard while everyone tried to figure out where the sound was coming from. There was a little boy inside him that never really disappeared.
What stands out most now, looking back, is his ability to truly show up for the people he loved. If feelings were hurt, he wanted to repair things. If I asked him to support me in a specific way, he did his best to meet me there. He wasn’t perfect, but he was always willing to try. And that willingness meant everything.
When David and I got engaged, I told him clearly that I simply wanted to be treated like any other couple. Without hesitation, my Dad showed up with the same excitement and pride he had for my sister. He celebrated us fully. When my first book was published, he would proudly tell anyone who would listen about his “gay psychic son.”
That took courage for a man of his generation. He came from an era where many parents would have struggled with acceptance, or kept parts of their children hidden to make themselves more comfortable. But my Dad chose pride over fear, again and again. He didn’t just tolerate who I was. He celebrated me openly.
Looking back now, I realize what a gift that truly was.
When my Dad was first diagnosed with dementia and asked for my help, we sat down together and I said, What do you want me to do? How can I support you?
His one request was simple: he wanted to live at home independently for as long as possible.
The role reversal was incredibly difficult. About two years into the diagnosis, I had to take away his car keys. He loved driving, and I hated feeling like I was clipping his wings. But he trusted me. He followed my guidance even when it hurt.
In the middle of 2025, he kept asking me to take him to the beach. It was his one request, to sit by the ocean and feel the breeze on his face. So we booked a hotel less than ten minutes from his condo, a place our family had visited for decades. He recognized the name immediately and became excited.
We took shifts being with him, like a peaceful changing of the guard. Text messages constantly going back and forth to make sure someone was always keeping him company.
One afternoon, I told him I was going to take a quick nap and would come back in about an hour. In hindsight, it was naive of me to think he could still track time that way.
When I returned, the door to his room was slightly ajar. He was gone.
I sent a frantic message to the family group chat: Dad is missing. Does anyone know where he is?
One by one, the replies came back: no.
Everyone scattered. One person checked the pool. Another headed toward the beach. Someone searched the lobby.
Then I rounded the corner near the hotel bar, and there he was. Sitting on a barstool in canary yellow pants covered with whales, his shirt on backwards, joyfully holding court with a couple of new friends. From the expressions on their faces, I could tell he wasn’t quite making sense. But they were kindly humoring him.
Then he turned and saw me. His entire face lit up.
“Hey there!” he said. “Come join me. You guys are late.”
By that stage of the disease, I had learned not to contradict him. Even though part of me wanted to say, I asked you not to leave your room! Instead, I grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bar, placed my hand on his shoulder, and said: “Looks like you’re having fun, Dad.”
And he was.
That trip came with quiet whispers from the universe that he could no longer live independently.
In the weeks that followed, he began waking in the middle of the night, getting dressed, and wandering outside his apartment. Security guards would find him roaming the neighborhood, convinced he was late for an imaginary flight or a business meeting. As a family, we finally made the decision to move him into memory care for his safety.
I assumed we would still have years with him there. I imagined we would settle into routines and somehow continue adapting together.
But only two months after the move, I received a call from one of the nurses. He’d been rushed to the ER with severe edema and several other complications that, at the time, still felt treatable. David and I immediately flew to Florida.
This is where dementia became the Bermuda Triangle of recovery. Physical therapists would walk into his room and gently explain the exercises he needed to do to regain strength. But by the time they finished explaining, my Dad was either trying to hire them to work for his real estate company (most days he still believed he was actively running his business), or he had already forgotten what they’d asked him to do.
His brain could no longer support recovery.
First, he couldn’t follow physical therapy instructions. Then he forgot how to use utensils. Eventually, even when someone fed him, he no longer remembered how to swallow.
In just a matter of months, we went from talking every day on the phone to not being able to reach him at all. Sometimes the nurses would FaceTime me, and I could still see a small glimmer in his eyes.
But his body was slowly shutting down.
During those final weeks, I found myself flooded with flashbacks of the small moments that shaped who I am.
When I was a teenager, my Dad drove me to meditation classes twice a week, forty-five minutes each way. While I sat inside with a group of adults learning how to clear chakras and build crystal grids, he patiently waited in the car reading the newspaper.
At sixteen, when I asked for a chakra bowl for my birthday, he enthusiastically bought me one. But in true Dad fashion, he kept calling it my “cosmic salad bowl,” convinced I would probably use it for lettuce someday.
He didn’t always fully understand the strange spiritual world I was drawn to. But he never mocked me for it either. He supported my curiosity even when it must have seemed completely bizarre to him. He listened to me talk endlessly about energy and intuition and meditation long before any of it became my career.
There is something so humbling about realizing that the person who helped shape your path may no longer understand the impact they had on it.
I think that’s what grief is slowly teaching me right now.
A life is not only measured in the big moments. It’s measured in rides to meditation classes. In waiting patiently in parking lots. In yellow whale pants. In hidden fart machines and helpless laughter. In sitting beside someone at a hotel bar when they no longer fully understand the world around them.
Love often looks much smaller and much quieter than we expect it to.
Until one day you realize it shaped your entire life.
Much Love,
48 Responses
D –
May future rainbows
Remind you of his sunshine
When the clouds have gone
Thank you Tom, I appreciate the kindness 🌈
My heart opens as I read your post. Thank you for sharing how love so simply shapes us so deeply. Blessings to you and your family.
Joseph, thank you for receiving it that way. Blessings right back to you. 💜
I am so very sorry for your loss. Your words touched me deep in my soul. I lost my mom 9 years ago and my dad passed in August almost 5 years ago. The pain and grief have left a huge hole in my heart. Who knew that the pain of grief is actually a very physical pain in your chest-leaving a throbbing gaping hole where your heart used to be. When the waves of grief wash over me I use my memories of the love we shared to help me swim through the waves. And I also remember that “isn’t it wonderful to have loved somebody so much that the price we pay for having them in our lives” Despite the pain I would do it all again a thousand times over….You are in my prayers
Thank you for this Shelly, truly. The waves, the physical pain, the love that makes it all worth it, you said it perfectly. 🤍
always hard when they go but harder when its a piece at a time – been there with my family, we miss them but know they are whole and safe again on the other side just a whisper away
Suzie, “just a whisper away” is perfect, I’m going to hold onto that. Thank you for sharing your heart.
What a lovely man. It is obvious how much he loved you. I am so sorry Dougall.
Thank you Lynn, I really appreciate it. 💙
I am on your mailing list. In my late seventies, I have lost many loves, relatives and friends but I must say that losing parents is uniquely traumatizing, all the more so if there was a close bond. Until my mother’s death I didn’t realize I was so attached to her. I have described the experience of watching someone you love deteriorate, knowing there is no liklihood of improvement, to being on a train’s tracks unable to move, with a train coming,
This kind of loss is the down side of being human that we all experience. Twenty years after mom’s death she connected with me through a medium. Incredulous that she took so long, a psychic friend told me that the delay meant that had I heard from her sooner, it might have interrupted both of our spiritual growth, I might have learned to depend on her (when she had other things to focus on) and it wasn’t the right thing to do. And for sure, this earth life is so short, we can’t afford to be sidetracked, even in our grief.
Bless you and your dad and thank you for the beautiful heartfelt eulogy.
Valeria Bleistein
Valeria, the image of being frozen on the tracks, that is one of the most honest descriptions of anticipatory grief I’ve ever heard. Thank you for sharing your wisdom.
Sending sympathy Dougall. Beautiful memories, exceptional capture of his spirit , and the whale pants story is such a reflection of his joie de vive. I appreciate you writing about his love , pride and acceptance of ‘gay psychic son’ as in my family that has been a tough road. Hope all the thoughts of special moments are a comfort. A memory jar helped me in my grief( write mini reflections and put in a jar for heart keeping). I needed a tangible way to be sure the special Mom sparkles ( like you seeing him in the car with the newspaper post meditation class) would not be forgotten. Seeing beach colors of sunrise/ sunset around you and sending 🙏🏻
Patricia, the memory jar is beautiful. And thank you for understanding what his acceptance meant, not everyone gets that and I never took it for granted. So much love to you. 🙏
Losing a parent is a very heart breaking experience. I love the way you wrote about him – so much love ! I am so sorry for your loss. It has been 18 months since I lost my dad and your blog brought those memories of that spectacular person that raised us. Thank you for sharing. You are in my prayers. A big hug for you.
Diana, thank you for letting my words bring your dad back for a moment. That means so much to me. Sending you a big hug right back.
I’m chuckling at your dad’s unique style and your ” salad bowl”. The beautiful memories will carry you through the grief. Big hugs 🫂.
Laurie, the salad bowl still makes me laugh. Thank you for the big hugs, sending them right back.
Very eloquently written. Once both of my parents were gone, I too felt different deeply inside.
Thank you so much, I know that you understand what this is like.
What a beautiful soul your Dad is dear Dougall. His love for you and your family is undeniable. My heart and prayers go out to all of you in your grief. Not a day will go by that you don’t think about your Dad and all of the wonderful memories made together. His love is the greatest gift he could ever give you. Hold on to those treasured experiences whenever you feel sad. His spirit will always be with you, guiding, loving and supporting your life and dreams. Sending you all so much love in this difficult time.
😇🙏🩵 🪽🌹
Debbie, you said it so beautifully. Love really is the gift, the one that doesn’t go anywhere. Thank you for reminding me of that today. So much love to you.
Very sorry for your loss. Your dad reminds me of my dad not a perfect person as none of us are, but he was very kind and loving and did try to the best of his ability to accept his children’s choices.
I just had this conversation with my brother who still holds a lot of Resentment for how he was treated as a child and has not shown forgiveness. When we show forgiveness we are able to be free. My dad was also a fashionista, He loved his “plum outfit” a suit that was all purple! Sending much love to you as you navigate this healing on the loss of your dad. ❤️
Diane, the plum suit! Our dads would have gotten along just fine. And what you said about forgiveness setting us free, that is such hard won wisdom. Thank you for sharing something so personal. Sending so much love to you and your brother.
Cosmic salad bowl! I love the layers of meaning. And the yellow whale pants. What a hoot! Brought back memories of my own father, who was not dissimilar to yours. After both my parents were gone, I felt like an orphan. Was I now truly an adult? May you always relish the craziness and wonderfulness of the people chosen to raise you. Going through Alzheimer’s with a parent isn’t an easy process. Bless you and your family.
Such a wonderful blog Dougall. Thank you for sharing. It was healing to read about his journey. He was such a wonderful man. I will miss him terribly.
So very sorry for what you are going through. Thank you so much for sharing your dad with us and painting such a vivid picture of him. I can see the kelly green sports coat, with patchwork pants, crisp white shirt and loafers. I am glad he showed you how much he loved you as that love will help you, especially in the beginning of your grief. Can imagine it was hard to watch him slip away, and hope in time you have more memories of the dad you knew, the person he was and fewer thoughts of the last few months. Seems he was aware on one level of your trip to Japan and timed his passing accordingly. (Hope not to have overstepped to say that). Have a feeling there will lots of signs in Japan! Sending you all lots of love! 💕💕💕
Wow what lovely memories. He was a remarkable man. Hang tight to the memories to get you through the grief.
Such a beautiful and meaningful tribute to your dad, your journey with him, and your current experience. Thank you so much for sharing so authentically. As my own parents age, I feel very touched and supported by stories like this. Lots of love to you.
How Blessed were you to have such a loving supportive father💕…You will find many people have absolutely no idea what to say to you when your loved ones transition. I became certified in grief work & it is amazing how no one really knows how to express their feelings to someone who has experienced a loss.
My most beloved Aunts both passed on as a result of Alzheimer’s. Each journey had similar & different behaviors. I am watching my good friend, who is 90, get worse everyday. Each day is filled with loss.
May you continue to remember all of the many good times you shared with your Dad, & live in the Love that you feel for him. 🙏🏼☮️💚🌈🕯️
I met your sweet father when he saw us pulling into our veranda. He thought we were to be his next door neighbors. We were to be 2 doors down. We invited him and Hoover in for a drink. And so it began.
When we lost our son in only 2 hours he stood in our porch with a potted plant and condolences.
When my husband jim died the day after Xmas he was driving back home from Texas. He called while on the road to express his sympathy.
He was putting pressure on me to get out of the house. I finally relented. And so began our meetings for lunch’s and dinners.
My children adored him and he always ask about them. He also kept me informed of your travels.
If ever at social events someone would say any thing about gays he would publicly pounce and let them know how incorrect their thinking was.
Grief takes many faces. You will find your way.
He was a true friend. We were all blessed to have him in our lives.
My deepest condolences to you Dougall.
My dad died in 88. It was very traumatic because it was sudden, my mom in 2013.
I remember when my mom died I thought I’m an orphan! I’m an only child and I’m it now. What a revelation!
Your dad sounded like perfect parent, so accepting, kind and funny. You were so lucky to have him, as he was to have all of you who cared for him so deeply. My heart goes out to you all.
Beautiful memories of a beautiful relationship. Take care as you grieve with gratitude It’s inspiring 💕
My mother passed away 2 years ago, and had been diagnosed with dementia 2 years prior to that. Your puzzle analogy really resonated with me. My father had passed many years prior to my mom, so when she passed the word I used to describe how I was feeling was untethered. As time passes, I can feel their presence with me often, and I can picture them and see that the anchors are still there, but just a little further away than they used to be. Hold on to the memories.
This is so well written. I didn’t know you well in HS, so it’s not a surprise to that I didn’t know about your meditation and chakra work. While others spent their time trying to leave their realities, you were looking to better understand yourself. Your friendly smile, sense of humor and style are memories I have … obviously they were passed down from your Dad.
May his memory be a blessing.
Joe and I are sending virtual hugs to you both. So sorry for the passing of your dad. He sounds like an awesome person. Remember all the good times you’ve shared together they will help ease your pain.
What a beautiful recall of all that love you grew up with – may it hold you close in the more difficult days ahead. If only we all had those memories to carry us through. How blessed you are.
I am so sorry Dougall. Your grace is so beautiful. What a gorgeous tribute to your father. When my Dad passed last year from a fall and also had Alzheimer’s there was relief, grief and this space that was now available to me. A strange form of freedom. How do I keep evolving? How can I surpass a person I came from? I stood still for months then gently started to step forward with him supporting me. I pray you feel the support soon. 💕
Thank you so much for sharing that deeply touching story Dougall. I wish your Dad could have met my Dad. They sound like they were “cut from the same cloth”. If you have more stories please share. Sending love to you and your family. ❤️
Thank you for this insight into love’s depths, hidden joys and true meaning. I send you hugs and love.
How beautifully written, as only you can do. It is a wonderful tribute to your father and all he means to you. Memories comfort us when the loved one is no longer with us. But, they are always carried in the heart. Sending you much love.
Your father seems like such a luminant person. I’m sorry he’s no longer in this world. My heart goes out to you and your loved ones.
I lost my mom about 4-5 years ago. Sometimes it still feels like yesterday. Other times, for a split second, I forget she’s moved on. Grief is so layered and individual. And the shock of losing someone sooner than expected is a different kind of grief altogether. I was one of my mom’s caretakers and it really seemed like she would have more time.
And thank you for sharing your caretaking experience. I am now one of the caretakers to my dad, and in trying to do my best to care for him, I still find myself arguing with him about little things. But your story reminded me that there is more than one way to be there for someone.
My most sincere sympathies. Your father’s sartorial choices sound endearingly unique. Almost by itself, that detail paints a picture of an independent character capable of distinguishing between mere convention and what is truly important.
So very sorry for your loss. What a beautiful tribute to your dad. He sounds like a wonderful loving father & quite the character.
Having lost both my parents over the last 3 yrs I understand that feeling of… displacement almost, it is very hard to put into words & as a grown adult that feeling took me by surprise.
Go gently on yourself & keep cherishing those memories 💜🙏💐
Hi Dougall, I enjoyed reading every word. Your Dad sounds like someone I would’ve been honored to know. What a gem you had growing up! I often wonder with dread what it’s going to be like to lose my foundation (my mother), and I liken it to an old oak tree, cut down, and I’m a branch that is going to lose its leaves without my roots — everything I know about where I come from will dissipate into the dirt. I don’t know. But I love how you lovingly described your father, and after reading this, I understand. He lives on in you. The tree isn’t cut down, its branches continue to thrive, because its soul lives on in the trunk. Bless x. May your Dad RIP. xx
What a beautiful post – and thanks for sharing it. Your Dad sounds like a real character and what great love he showered on you.
All the best to you and take care in your grieving.
What a beautiful story of Love! You are indeed lucky to have had such a wonderful relationship with your Dad. It helps to know that death is only a doorway. We will all go though that door someday, and you will see your Dad again. Thank you so much for sharing.
oh yea… you said it Dougall. My heart hears. My soul tears. oodles of love to you