Early one Saturday morning in February 2022, Eliza rolled over and asked if I could get up with our toddler, Faye. She was calling for us from her room. I was traveling later that day, so I took one for the team, got out of bed, and went to get her.
I scooped Faye up, carried her downstairs, and made us breakfast.
I sat beside Faye and fed her yogurt with honey while I drank my coffee and Raffi played in the background. After each spoonful she licked her lips, said "more," and cupped her fingers together to sign it.
A few hours later I got in my Outback and started the four-hour drive to Boston to visit my father. He was at McLean Hospital, just outside the city. His dementia had progressed quickly. He stopped talking almost entirely, and the doctors had admitted him to the geriatric psych ward to dial in his meds. I hadn't seen him in a few months.
My brother Jon met me in the parking lot carrying a paper bag of Chinese food, our dad’s favorite.
"Get ready," he said. "He's been struggling."
Security only allowed one visitor at a time, so Jon stayed behind. After checking in, a guard led me through a maze of hallways and locked doors to my father’s room.
The guard stopped and opened the door.
As soon as my dad saw me, he gasped, then smiled.
For a second I felt a wave of relief. He knew who I was. Then I really looked at him.
I didn't recognize him.
The man standing in front of me wore a secondhand sweatsuit stained with food, a robe over it, his gray hair standing in every direction, and a beard.
This wasn't the man who carefully crafted his image. Most days he wore Ralph Lauren from head to toe. He was clean shaven with slicked back hair. He never left the house without looking impeccable.
My stomach sank.
I took him by the hand and walked him to the common area. A group of patients stared at the TV hanging on the wall. The Winter Olympics were on. Figure skating.
I hoped the scallion pancakes and chicken lo mein would cheer him up. I unpacked the containers, made him a plate, and set it in front of him. I pulled my chair beside his.
One of his hands rested on the table. The other gripped a crumpled napkin. His body trembled slightly.
I asked if I could help him. He nodded.
I lifted the first spoonful toward him. He opened his mouth.
Every time I lifted another spoonful, he opened his mouth again. Some of the food rolled down his chin, and I kept a napkin in my free hand to catch what didn't make it.
I shared life updates as I fed him. I told him about work, the Patriots, Eliza, and that she was pregnant with our second daughter. I told him he was going to be a grandfather again.
It didn't register.
He just kept staring ahead and opening his mouth for the next spoonful.
I finished feeding him and cleared away his plate. We sat together in silence for an hour before it was time to hit the road. We hadn't exchanged a single word the whole visit, and yet I never felt closer to him. I fought back tears as I said goodbye.
A little while later I was back on the Mass Pike heading home. The road was dark and empty. There was no music or podcasts. Just the glow of headlights and the sound of the tires meeting the road.
Somewhere in the Berkshires, the weight of the day finally caught up to me.
I kept coming back to the same small motion. Lift the spoon. Wait for his mouth to open. Twelve hours earlier, I did the same thing for Faye.
She was coming into words, while he was losing his.
That's when I realized this season of life was asking something new of me. I was being called to care for my daughter and my father at the same time.
My dad was so helpless that day, so disarmed, that all I could see was just a human being with all of his imperfections and limitations. He was as helpless as the little girl I fed that morning. I forgave him, forgave Faye for the early wake-ups, and started forgiving myself for not always getting it right.