Visiting my father with dementia

“Your teeth look great!”

This is the first full sentence my dad has said to me in a long time, and I love it on so many levels.

It’s a nice thing to say to someone. Especially to me, as I don’t have the world’s nicest teeth. Despite multiple rounds of braces, they remain pretty goofy – too big for my face. And with all the tea and coffee I drink, they’ve lost their whiteness over the years.

But my dad told me they look great.

Only a father could say such words. And I wanted kind words from a father. As I’ve said before, I feel like I’m missing a dad – even though he’s still here.

Until he said that, I’d been feeling pretty low, to be honest.

The day before, I’d returned from a lovely family holiday in Cornwall with my partner and kids – larking about in the pool, endless games of UNO, braving the unpredictable English summer for walks, indulging in cream teas, ice creams, fish and chips. It had recharged me. I’d rested properly for the first time in a while as the nights were cooler in the countryside, tucked up in bed in a converted barn.

I knew I needed to visit my dad. It had been a few weeks – too long – but I’d been scrambling to get everything done before the mad juggling of the school holidays.

As I walked into the care home, I dragged my feet. I didn’t want to be reminded of how much my dad has deteriorated. It felt like a harsh return to reality. South London looked particularly bleak under heavy grey clouds on this muggy day – a far cry from Cornwall’s rolling green hills.

It took ages for someone to buzz me in. I stood in the porch, craning my neck to catch someone’s attention, feeling increasingly agitated. I wanted to come in, and I didn’t want to come in.

Upstairs, I found my dad in the lounge with the other residents, listening to old nostalgic music that even predated his youth. It might have been Frank Sinatra, or it might have been someone else.

My dad had cooler taste than this. He liked Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen. I remember being impressed, as a teenager, when he bought albums by Oasis and Skunk Anansie.

He’s too young to be here, I thought.

He was always up to date, always engaged with the zeitgeist. He embraced new technology. I think one of my first clues something was wrong was when he started struggling with his desktop computer – something he used to navigate with ease.

He didn’t passively grow old – he leaned into the changing world. A part of me wants my dad to get credit for that. To be spared dementia. Didn’t he do all the “right” things?

But now we sit together in the lounge. The saccharine music continues, and I show my dad pictures from our holiday – mostly of the kids.

I wish he could have come on holiday with us, like other grandparents I saw playing with their grandchildren on the beach. He always enjoyed a cream tea – he and I were the ones with the sweet tooth in our family – and he loved a country walk. But it wouldn’t have been right to shake up his routine, force him to navigate a new place. Still, it almost feels mean, showing him my photos of my lovely holiday while he’s been here all along.

A nurse brings round cups of tea, placing them on little tables in front of the residents. I watch my dad shakily pick up his cup. I assume it’s not too hot – that would be a disaster – but I have to look away as he slowly manoeuvres it to his mouth. It’s like watching your toddler insist on doing something themselves. You want to intervene but know you shouldn’t.

I glance down and notice my dad’s ankles look a bit swollen. Probably from sitting too long. Since his recent mobility problems, he hardly moves.

I wonder: should these afternoons include some light chair exercises? Or is it better to let the residents doze, tea in hand, at peace?

With children, we’re always encouraging movement, learning – knowing it’ll benefit them later. But with dementia, the direction is only ever one way. All we can do is make the journey as gentle and dignified as possible.

I consider the word “recover”. He won’t recover from this dementia. He won’t recover his ability to talk fluently, or many of his memories. Will I recover from seeing my father like this? I think of a cover being drawn over something, like a dust sheet to protect.

It feels as if he is uncovered, exposed somehow in this vulnerable state without his brain to protect him properly. How vulnerable they all are dozing on these sofas.

And then – out of nowhere – my dad says my teeth look great.

I’ll take that.

I wish we could talk about more. But here we are.