Writing is therapeutic for me, which means I write when I’m sad. I also write when I’m happy or feeling like I’m making progress in some area of my life that has been lacking, but I mostly write when I’m sad.

Today I am sad. Very sad.

My stepdad passed away yesterday after a long battle with Dementia. Actually, it might be more fitting to say my mom was the one who battled dementia because she was his full-time caregiver. If you have ever had someone close to you suffer from this wickedly cruel disease, you get that the battle was more my mom’s.

Over the course of a couple of years, my stepdad’s disease became my mom’s disease. She was his memory, his conversationalist when people called to see how he was, she was his security and his nurse. My mom spent every waking moment being his everything.

Dementia slowly, then quickly, took my stepdad. It started with his memory and then took his physical well-being.

Dementia slowly, then quickly, took my mom’s life too. It started with my stepdad’s memory before taking his physical abilities. My mom lived isolated, confined and devoted for over two years.

To talk with my mom during this time she was tough and resolved to be my stepdad’s caregiver. She rarely told stories of how incredibly hard her life was and how his battle had become hers. She deflected, was proud and never asked for help from any of us kids. That is my mom.

I’m not unfamiliar with losing someone close – I recall the death of each of my grandparents vividly. I watched with great sadness as my husband lost of his father at only 18 and his mama when our kids were old enough to understand and feel the hurt I went through losing my grandparents. I lost one of my dearest lifelong girlfriends a few years ago to cancer, which tore out my heart. And just last year my husband’s grandfather passed away, which felt like reliving the death of his father. All different ages, different diseases, but all brought me great sadness. A sadness that grips so hard and doesn’t really ever let go.

The loss of my stepdad is a different kind of sadness. Other than my girlfriend, I have never felt this level of profound grief. This man chose to raise me and my sister – from the time I was six-ish, he was there. By choice.

I had a unique relationship with my stepdad. He saw things in me that no one else did – and if they did, he was the only one who told me.

He knew I was smart, capable of achieving greatness, and he wanted me to achieve greatness. Not because I was his kid, but because he truly believed in me.

Over the last few months, our conversations were limited because he just didn’t recall much. But each conversation ended with me thanking him for being my daddy. And I meant it each time I said it. I didn’t say it to diminish the relationship or feeling I have for my actual dad – in fact, the opposite. I was the lucky kid with two dads and two moms – and I love them all. I cherish my dad and each moment we have together – we love each other deeply. But my stepdad raised me. I lived with him, got disciplined by him, we ate family meals together and he helped me with everyday problems. In my heart, he was (also) my daddy.

If I could have one more day with my stepdad, this is what I would tell him…

Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for your love. Just…thank you.

Written on January 28, 2020