"Do you still have your molars?" This is the question my 91-year-old father, now a frail shadow of his former self, asks me every five minutes or so. Each time, I try to find a new way to answer, though my wit often runs dry. Once, I asked why he kept asking me this question, and he replied, “Once a dentist, always a dentist.” At this stage of life, his humor shines through with a surprising levity, his gift for silly rhymes and wordplay a joy to witness.
The first time I realized that he didn’t know who I was, I cried. Sitting in the comfort of his living room, in the house he’s called home for three decades, he asked me what was wrong. I told him it was sad to not be recognized by my own father. He looked at me lovingly and apologized, saying that his brain no longer worked the way it used to. “I know,” I said. “It is still sad, though.”
Another question he often asks is what I do for a living. This one is tricky for me, as my professional life doesn’t fit neatly into a single box. I am a school teacher with a master’s degree who has chosen to work on-call in order to pursue other passions—sea kayak guiding, teaching yoga and meditation, and running several businesses ranging from outdoor education to women’s empowerment programs to an online T-shirt store. A part of me longs for him to understand my whole story and witness how far I’ve come. But I know that he can’t… not fully. It is as if the space that separates us widens.
Without fail, when I share my current pursuit of a 300-hour Meditation Teacher Training certification, he stops me and asks if I’ve ever heard of Vipassana meditation. He likes to think of himself as a Buddhist monk of sorts. I inevitably remind him that he introduced me to Vipassana in my teens and that its teachings have influenced many aspects of my adult life. He then gently reminds me that the essence of Vipassana is to see things as they really are—a definition that feels especially fitting for our current experience, navigating the shifting sands of his memory and identity.
On the couch beside him is one of his photo albums, which he flips through regularly. His memory for old friends is remarkable, even as his recollection of immediate family falters. It’s hard to ignore the tightness in my chest as I observe this, a reminder of his lack of family prioritization throughout his life. But at this stage, who does it serve to dwell on what wasn’t, when all we truly have is this moment? As the Buddha teaches, in his timeless wisdom, “Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.”
I chose to forgive my father many years ago, while maintaining firm boundaries. I still do. But now there is an extra gentleness, a softening that allows gratitude for what remains: a Buddhist jokester whose obsession with dental hygiene inspires playful poetry. Just yesterday, he came up with this:
"Do you floss and do you rinse? Make your molars sparkle and convince!"
This is my dad in his essence. A man who, even as he loses so much of what once defined him, continues to surprise me with his humor, his rhymes, and his enduring connection to the spiritual lessons he holds dear.
It’s not easy, watching someone you love slip away piece by piece. But there are small treasures in the unraveling, too: his childlike curiosity, his joy in simple wordplay, and the rare moments of lucidity when a loving smile lights up his face. These are the gifts Alzheimer’s has given me, tucked alongside the heartache.
And so, we take it one day, one breath at a time. Each molar question, each forgotten name, and each new rhyme is part of this journey. In his confusion, there is still love. And in my sorrow, there is still gratitude. For in this moment—this moment alone—we are here together.
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