I’ve said these things a million times, and I’ll probably say them a million more to someone who needs to hear them. That’s who I am. I’m a comforter. I want to make the hurt feel a little lighter, the waiting a little easier, the hard thing a little more bearable.

And maybe, for some things, these words are true.

But sometimes, they’re a lie.

Time heals.
Time heals all wounds.
Things get easier with time.

When Dad got too sick to be at home two years ago and we had to make some very difficult decisions, there was still so much of MY DAD there. He was funny. He said some very “Cecil Paul” things. Most of the time, he was in a pretty good mood.

As time has moved on, so many things have stayed the same, and so many things have changed.

Time has not healed anything.

Things have only gotten harder.

While my two kids have found greater independence—living hours away, renting their own places, and figuring out this whole adulting thing—my dad, my rock, MY DAD, has lost more and more of his.

Dad’s place has always been predictable.

When I was a kid, we were going to play outside. The paper mill was going to call, and he was going to yell from the other room, “Don’t answer the phone!” We were going to fix something, take something apart, or build something new.

He was a tinkerer.

Even after he moved to memory care, there was still predictability. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were usually entertaining, with Dad at the center of it all. When we checked his room, you could almost count on something having been “fixed.” A cabinet taken apart. A fixture removed from the wall. Pencil marks drawn somewhere for his next project.

There was always something for me to put back together.

There was always something to fix.

There was always a story.

There was always conversation.

But time—she is a thief.

Now, when we go, it is anything but predictable.

He may or may not be awake.

You may or may not be able to wake him.

He may or may not be able to hold a conversation.

There usually aren’t repairs needed anymore. Nothing for me to put back together. His clothes aren’t pulled out all over the room waiting for me to put them back. He isn’t predictably roaming the halls looking for the next person to entertain or the next thing that needs fixing.

I still hear stories from the staff about his latest shenanigans, but they don’t come as often now. There is more time between them.

Maybe it’s because I don’t visit as much as I used to.

Or maybe it’s because he isn’t there as much as he used to be.

That is one of the hardest truths I have learned about dementia.

Time doesn’t heal it.

Time doesn’t make it better.

Time makes it worse.

Time makes it harder.

I feel guilty for not going as much as I once did. But some days, the loss of predictability is more than I can handle but  then there is the guilt.

The guilt is almost as painful as the loss itself. It sits heavy. It tells me I should go more, stay longer, and try harder. It reminds me that time is passing whether I am there or not.

I know there will come a day when I would give anything for one more visit, one more conversation, one more “Cecil Paul” moment.

That knowledge makes the guilt even heavier.

It is hard to spend all week looking forward to going to Dad’s, only to get there and realize that MY DAD is not really there that day.