Dad’s Story - When Letting Go Happens Slowly

My father was deeply rooted in his faith. He and my mother believed strongly that the timing of death was not something we were meant to control.

For most of his life, that belief was unwavering.

As his dementia progressed, things began to change—but not all at once.

It was slow.

At first, it showed up in small ways—confusion, forgetfulness, subtle shifts in behavior. But over time, it became something much more consuming.

Towards the end he began calling out for my mother constantly. And when she came to him, he often didn’t recognize her.

He started falling more frequently. The paramedics came so many times that my mother began to wonder what they must think of her.

It reached a point where things felt almost unmanageable.

There were moments when my mother quietly shared a fear that was hard to say out loud:

She worried she might die before him—and what would happen to him if she did.

That’s when the conversation began to shift.

Not all at once.
But slowly, ever so slowly, a different way of thinking started to emerge.

We began focusing on comfort.

Instead of encouraging him to eat and drink in the ways we once had, we started to follow his lead. If he asked for something, we gave small amounts—ice cream, small sips, chopped ice, or a gentle spritz of water to ease his dry mouth.

He didn’t like water.

And over time, he began to take in less and less.

There was no single moment where a decision was declared.

It was a series of small, compassionate choices made in real time.

Moment by moment.

Reflection

My father’s story is deeply personal—and also deeply nuanced.

There are situations where a person is no longer making clear, conscious decisions, but their body is naturally beginning to withdraw.

In those moments, families are often left to interpret what comfort looks like.

This isn’t about control.

It’s about paying close attention, responding with care, and allowing a natural process to unfold without forcing what no longer feels aligned.