My homework was to sit and grieve Dad.  Be still in my sadness.  In the pain.  I couldn’t get myself to do it.  When I sit and think of Dad my brain slams down walls so that I can’t go too far down the path.  But when I write about Dad, my brain can’t slam down those walls as easily.

My Dad.  My grief.  I miss him.  I miss who he was.  It’s not just the physical death that occured this year.  It’s the death of his brain.  I put the time frame at 5 years.  Five years I watched my Dad lose his mind.  And I wish that was just a saying but for Dad it wasn’t.  My Dad lost his mind, literally.  His ability to remember.  

It sounds so simple, remembering.  You think of your life and you remember.  You remember the good times and the bad.  The times you broke your bones and the times that you felt loved.  The moments in your life that defined who you are.  Figuring out what you want to do with your life.  Who you want to spend the rest of your days with.  The moment you found out you would be a parent.  

And Dad slowly, steadily and permanently lost those memories.  And he forgot who I am.  He forgot the moment that Mom told him she was pregnant with me.  He forgot that he decided I would be called Jennifer because he saw the name in the paper and liked it.  He forgot the moment Mom called him and told him she was in the hospital in labor with me.  He forgot the first time he held me in his arms.  He forgot my first steps.  My first bike ride.  My first baseball game.  My first swim meet.  My first heartbreak.  The first time I called him Daddy.  He forgot the times we would go into the Big Horn mountains to get wood for our fireplace and after we did our chores, we would go fishing.  He forgot the time he held someone against our pantry wall with a 2×4 in his hand because he thought the guy was breaking into the house (longish story).  He forgot the time I snuck out of the house and got caught (although I’m more okay with him forgetting that).  He forgot about Trey asking him for my hand in marriage.  He forgot walking me down the aisle at my wedding.  He forgot the times I danced with him.  He forgot holding his one and only grandchild in his arms. 

He forgot my life.  He forgot that I am important to him.  He forgot that he loves me.

And he forgot that I love him.  Deeply love him.   

And when he died there was no more hope that he would ever remember me.  That he wouldn’t become lucid enough to look at me with those beautiful blue eyes and recognize that I am his daughter.  One last time for him to look at me with love and pride. 

And that reality shreds my heart.