A Glimpse Inside

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 "Grief comes in many forms, and it often begins long before the actual loss. For me, it started when I watched my father’s vibrant personality gradually give way to the effects of Alzheimer’s. Each small change felt like losing a piece of him, long before his final goodbye. What lay ahead would challenge everything I thought I knew about love, loss, and the importance of being present."

Seeing him after months apart brought reality crashing down on me like a wave. His once-steady hands trembled, and his distant gaze hinted at the mental fog that Alzheimer’s brings. Yet even through the decline, he held my mom’s hand and kissed her on the lips like he always had. Even Alzheimer’s couldn’t take away that loving habit.

Grief doesn’t follow a neat path. It can begin long before the final goodbye. That was my first lesson: grief starts before you think it does. Recognizing those early emotions allowed me to honor the love that remained, even in the midst of loss.

 Two weeks after our trip, Mom called with a trembling voice that said everything before words even formed. My heart sank as she told me Dad had been losing weight and refusing food. Though she didn’t ask, I heard the unspoken plea in her voice. Without hesitation, I packed a bag and headed to Arizona.

Seeing him in the hospital was heartbreaking. His sturdy frame was frail, his voice faint. He whispered of pearly gates and the sound of trumpets, leaving me to wonder—was he caught between two worlds? Those moments felt both haunting and sacred, as if we were witnessing something beyond our understanding.

Then came the devastating words: stage 4 lung cancer. No treatment. Hospice. Just weeks left. Time, once measured in years, was now slipping away in days. Denial swirled, disbelief anchored itself in my chest, and I clung to Mom as we tried to absorb the reality we never wanted to face.

 Once the doctors confirmed there was nothing more to be done, Mom’s only wish was for Dad to spend his final days at home. Within days, he went from soft mentions of pearly gates to being back in the house he loved, surrounded by us, wrapped in familiar comfort and love.

Giving Dad his medication became one of the most painful yet sacred responsibilities of my life. Each dose was a reminder of how quickly he was slipping away. I carried that weight to protect Mom, wanting her memories to be filled with warmth, not worry.

During those days, I turned to my camera. Through the lens, I found a way to process the changes, a quiet record of grief as it unfolded. I never shared the final photos, even when Mom asked. Years later, she thanked me for protecting her from that memory, allowing her to hold on to love instead of loss.

 After Thanksgiving, the house grew quiet. The hum of laughter and family life faded, replaced by a stillness that made every room feel heavy. It was just Mom, Dad, and me now—moving tenderly through the final days together.

Some moments felt almost ordinary, like sharing holiday memories or listening to Mom’s gentle reassurances. Others carried the weight of goodbye. Two days before he passed, I dreamt of Dad wiggling my toe like he did when I was a child. In the dream, he smiled and said, “Look, I’m OK.” When I woke, I knew he was preparing to go.

The morning he passed, Mom and I held each other in the stillness. I had been grieving for weeks, but in that moment, it became real. Final. His last glance carried something unspoken—peace, maybe, or a silent thank you. That memory, fleeting and fragile, is one I will carry for life.

 The journal I bought for Mom began as a place to track doctor updates, but after Dad’s passing, it became her sanctuary. Each page held her heartbreak, her disbelief, and her aching love. In those first weeks, her words revealed the weight of absence more than anything else: “I cried. I cried. I cried.”

Reading her entries, I realized grief isn’t only about the loss of a person—it’s about the loss of the small rituals that make life whole. Morning hugs. Evening reassurances. Shared laughter over simple routines. Without them, she felt unanchored, and I felt powerless to make it right. We were both learning that grief is personal, layered, and unpredictable.

Over time, small signs of hope began to surface. A hummingbird outside the window, Dad’s wind chimes in the breeze, or an airplane passing overhead all felt like reminders that he was still with us. Even in the silence of loss, love found new ways to speak.