From Child to Caregiver

I raced my Dad when I was young. I had the confidence of a child. I expected to win because I thought I was fast. Unlike most fathers might do, my Dad didn’t let me win. I’m sure there was a lesson in it but at the time, it made my dad seem invincible. 

He was the first one up and the last one to bed. In between he worked very hard with occasional races against his little girls and throwing us into the pool with strength like the Hulk. 

We noticed the first signs of Parkinson’s Disease about 24 years ago. He was sweating constantly, an odd amount. It was the first clue. Over the following years, he was diagnosed with the disease we had feared. The doctors told us what to expect: a drop foot in his steps, regular medication, probable tremors, and eventually, dementia. 

My parents moved in with my sister and her family to make the most of the ‘good years’ he still had and to support the new grandkids growing up. When we were told he had mild cognitive impairment (MCI), it hit me hard. 

I remember his neurologist looking at me at UCSF, saying, “Becky, I know what I just said is a really big statement, and I want to give you room to share if you’d like to.” 

But not wanting to overwhelm my parents with my own emotions, I brushed it off and thanked her for her genuine care and sensitivity. On the way home that afternoon, driving over the Golden Gate Bridge, I took a quick video of my parents laughing together in the back seat.

Christmas was coming.  

I captured the joy of my parents singing a Christmas carol on the way home. We did not know at the time the rapid descent into dementia my father would experience. This video became my most important Christmas gift. 

My dad isn’t fit anymore; he can barely walk up the street and back. He isn’t quick either; it takes him minutes to get out a single sentence. And his strength is certainly gone; he can barely hold his own glass. Now, he sleeps more than anyone in the house. He goes to bed early and wakes up very, very late. Life is just so different now. Recently, my mom, a nurse and his primary caregiver, needed a day of respite. As I drove my 15-year-old son to their house to care for my dad, I thought about that drive over the Golden Gate. It was just five years ago. Where had the time gone? How could these short years have stolen my dad’s Hulk-sized strength so quickly?

But something amazing happened between that Golden Gate drive and my mom’s respite day. A friend who had walked the dementia road with his own dad, a few years ahead of me, encouraged me to talk with my dad about the things that needed to be said before it was too late. I took that advice, and I’m so glad I did. Like many parent-child relationships, there were things that needed to be addressed. One Christmas Eve, I was given the gift of genuine love in the form of forgiveness from my dad. He was really there—fully present. With clear speech, a quick mind, and in full strength of courage, my dad and I made peace.

It was one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever been given.

If you find yourself driving your own version of the Golden Gate, or taking your children to care for your ailing parents, you are not alone. It’s so easy to let the years slip by with so much happening, so much to do. But these years will go quickly, and dementia and disease can take over. Don’t let them steal your opportunity to find peace with your parents. Say the things that need to be said. Do the things that need to be done. And take all the videos and pictures you can, while you can.

In it with you,  

Becky Fisher

Thank you for reading my blog! I’m Dr. Pamela Prince Pyle, a hospitalist specializing in death, grief, and suffering with over thirty years of experience. My upcoming book, “Anticipating Heaven,” is set to release in January 2025 and explores the intersection of faith and medicine in approaching life’s final chapters. If you or a loved one have received a serious diagnosis, I have resources to help you navigate this challenging time. Please feel free to contact me with any questions or to share your story. Your journey matters, and I’m here to support you.