By Lindsey Jordan 
Dad, you just turned 70, a milestone I never expected to see. You had your first heart attack in your 40s when I was just 13, and while you eventually bounced back, you weren’t so lucky 16 years later. My husband and I spent a September Saturday moving into our first home, and I phoned you three times that day trying to solve a washing machine installation issue. Later that night, you suffered another heart attack. We all gathered at the hospital expecting the worst, just like we had 16 years earlier.
Miraculously, you survived again, but little did we know that night was the beginning of the end of “normal” for you. Six months later, I was pregnant with my first baby, and I got the call again; this time, you had a stroke. Once again, you were lucky to be alive, but you had suffered brain damage, and only time would tell exactly how severely it would impact your cognitive functioning.
Over the next few months, we realized the extent of the damage the stroke had caused. You were forced to sell your business. You would never drive again. Your eyesight would be permanently affected. Your short-term memory would be hit the hardest. You’d remember stories from your own childhood but would struggle to remember what day of the week it was or your grandson’s name.
Dad, I know you regret the lifestyle choices that contributed to this outcome. The smoking, the diet, the long, long hours running a high-stress business. I know you wish you could go back in time and do things differently. Your grandsons are 8 and 3 now. You tell me often that you’re sorry you can’t be the kind of grandpa you want to be. Your health has declined even more, and you aren’t able to make it to baseball games or birthday parties. I know this hurts you.
Dad, the more time that passes, the less you remember. We are lucky you’re still with us, but it’s anyone’s guess how much time is left. And because, too often, words are left unsaid, I want to tell you what I remember.
I remember my sisters and I were always safe with you. Always protected. Always provided for. You worked hard to make sure we had what we needed. You were big, strong, and capable.
I remember all the years you used to go “all out” for Halloween. I remember the year you didn’t put up decorations, thinking we had gotten too old for it. I remember we agreed with you, but it still felt like a sad end to an era. But then I remember waking up on Halloween morning and finding you in the driveway, unloading a truck full of Halloween decorations you had just purchased because you didn’t want to disappoint us. I remember spending the day together putting up the decorations and feeling so joyful. I won’t forget that feeling.
I remember the night in 10th grade when I stayed up late working on math homework. I remember realizing the assignment called for a calculator and waking you up at 11 p.m. to see if we had one. I remember you saying we didn’t, and going back to my room, stressed about how I would possibly get the assignment done. I remember hearing your car start a few minutes later and knowing it meant you were going to buy a calculator. I remember feeling like I wasn’t alone. I won’t forget that feeling.
I remember when Hurricane Rita hit our small southeast Texas town. I remember the hardware store being out of wood, and you taking apart our ping pong table to board up the windows to our bedrooms. I remember feeling safe. I won’t forget that feeling.
I remember the time in my 20s when I was driving home from work late and hit a deer. I remember crying hysterically, trying to make sense of how it all happened so fast. I remember being terrified, sitting alone in my car on the side of the road. I remember calling you, and I remember you coming right away. I felt supported. I won’t forget that feeling.
Dad, as your memory fails you, I want you to know I remember.
I remember all the times you came through for me. I remember all the times I needed you, and you were there. I remember how you taught me to work hard and be kind. I remember you, Dad. And while you may not be the grandpa you wish you could be, please know I will always remember the kind of dad you were.
by Whitney Fleming 
by Angela Joyner 
