Usually today I think of my husband and my children. We’ve been married almost 14 years and let’s face it, this is his day.

But for 45 years, I’ve had a father of my own–one who won the Purple Heart in WWII and who ran his home like a bunker of sorts–tough love, tight ship, iron fisted but generous and hard working.  None of us kids lacked for anything that was important–a good home, good education, good dental work. The “I love yous” were in scarce supply of course but then again, it was implied.  After all, he took care of us.

Now in his “golden years” of life–my Dad will be 87 this year–he lives his days in a haze of dementia.  He doesn’t remember your name, or why he knows you–or whether or not he brushed his teeth.  He’s not quite sure why you’re bringing him to “daycare” (and don’t call it that–for goodness sakes) and he’s not altogether certain of what he’s doing when he gets there–

but he goes just the same.  It’s his job, it’s his duty.  After all, my mother said so. And that’s everything to him now, because after years of him being in charge of the house he now clings to mom for every instruction.

And my mother has been my father’s ROCK since this awful, angry diagnosis hit our family like a shower of bricks 4 or 5 years ago–at this point it doesn’t matter to us because it feels like forever.

But what amazes me most about my father, and what grabs me “right around the ankles” as he used to tease us–is that he’s hanging in there.  He’s doing his thing. Forget that his “thing” is clearly uncertain to him–he’s not sure what is for lunch, or how to even make it, or (20 minutes later) whether he actually ever ate lunch–

but he doesn’t complain.  He gets up,  he smiles hello. He kisses my mother with the love and honesty of a child and he tells her how beautiful she is with the consistency of a clock chiming the hour.  He greets each day with a “okay, what am I doing now?” attitude and he always has a smile and a “don’t you look good” commentary to anyone he meets. To me, soldier that he was, father that he is, he’s now my explicit, unequivocal hero.

My Dad may not be getting any more Purple Hearts for wounds sustained in battle these days–not like that time in ’44 when a whistler bomb exploded near the Med-A-Vac tent, blowing up dozens of wounded soldiers, several nurses and the doctor my father was just speaking to second earlier–miraculously leaving Captain Murray full of shrapnel but otherwise unharmed..

yet if it were up to me Dave would be getting the Golden Heart Award.  Because he’s fighting a battle with dementia that he can’t win. At least my metastatic breast cancer comes with medical and alternative choices I can make to beat it back. This blasted disease just keeps advancing with no hope of retreat.  And beyond the memory games, old music and photo albums that we ply my parents with, my father has zero chance of getting back the man he once was.

And he has every right to give up and quit.  I mean, come one–who wants to fight a battle they can’t win?

But that’s what Dad’s doing.  He’s in the fight, smiling hard, waking up to to each new day and moving forward with everything he’s got, everything he is–even as he loses more of that each day.

And if that’s not a hero, I don’t know what is.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  I love you.

Ann’s books ‘pink tips’ and ‘Words To Live By’ now available in the SHOP section of this website.