Last night I dreamed that I sat down with my father to record his life history. In my dream, he was seated in a wheelchair, but he was full of energy and smiles, like he was before the event that started his neurologic decline. His face no longer drooped on the left, but instead, was perfectly symmetric. His hazel eyes sparkled when he smiled and joked with me, the way he once used to. In my dream, he was going to tell me everything about his past, and I planned to write every word of it down. I carried a black pen and a blank notebook filled with white, college-ruled paper, ready to be filled with my father’s story.

My father doesn’t remember me visiting him at the nursing home. This has been happening more and more lately. I think it upsets my mother more than it does me. I’m not hurt by his forgetfulness of my visits. It actually takes some of the pressure off. If I have to skip seeing him because work has gotten busy and my clinic runs late, or if I miss a visit because I’m traveling (like I will be this weekend), I’m comforted knowing that he won’t know the difference.

Maybe I should be sad that he doesn’t remember that I’ve been there by his side, holding his hand or helping with his dinner. Honestly, I feel rather numb about the whole thing now. March will be one year since he entered the nursing home. I’ve become resigned to this situation, to his dementia and to our complete lack of control.

I get the question often: “How is your dad?”

No matter how many times I’m asked, I always hesitate, not quite sure how to respond. There really isn’t a happy answer, just an honest one. He’s okay. He’s stable. We’re not having any crises right now. He seems comfortable. I say these things out loud, while inside, I’m thinking: He will die in there. That’s how this will end. We are all just waiting. And grieving.

I tried to make small talk when I visited with Dad late this afternoon. “I’m going on a trip tomorrow, Dad,” I said.

“Where are you going?” he asked, looking more alert than he had when I first arrived at his bedside.

“San Diego. For a work conference. I’ll be gone a few days.” I was speaking so loud that it felt as if I were yelling. He has very little hearing left, and only in his right ear.

“I’ve been there. I’ve been to San Diego. It was a long time ago.”