I’m writing to you as if you can still read and understand these words.

I know our time together is coming to an end. When I’m home again, let’s sit on a bench by the water and I’ll read this to you in the sunshine.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it means to care for someone, and my mind drifts to one of my earliest memories of you. I was in kindergarten. I came back from the playground with cuts and bruises and you got angry.

Your reaction surprised me, but now that I’m older, I understand.

I heard someone say that having a child is like watching your heart go walking around outside of your body. When I look at my preschool, scraped-up self through your pre-Alzheimer’s eyes, I see that your anger was really your way of saying:

I can’t bear to see you hurt, because you mean the world to me.

I remember back then you went on a lot of business trips. One night, after you came home, I rested my head on your lap. You pinched my earlobe softly and whispered that I used to do that to you when I was a baby. As I slowly drifted to sleep, I felt so safe and adored.

———

When I entered middle school, you opened a store and finally stopped traveling. I saw your hustle and grasped the scale of what you’d achieved — moving to a foreign country, building a business from scratch and being invited to the Blue House in recognition of it.

After the grand opening, a woman tried to walk out with some jewelry tucked into her stroller. It was the first time I’d ever seen a one-year-old act as an accomplice. But before she could leave, you stopped her — not to scold her, but to ask which one she liked best. Then you smiled and told her to take it.

A few years later, you got into a car accident. The business went downhill and I knew we were heading toward bankruptcy. I tried my best to help by pouring myself into my studies, but I didn’t realize that you were getting sick.

———

When I finally flew to New Jersey to meet with your doctor, I remember sitting beside you in his office. You were perched on the exam table when you turned to me and said, “I feel like I’m shrinking.”

Those words shook my heart, but I held it in.

A few moments later, the doctor came in and began testing you with questions like “What did you eat for breakfast?” and “Can you tell me what’s twenty-four minus seven?” You froze and couldn’t answer many of them. I wanted to blame the language barrier or white-coat hypertension, but deep down, I knew something was wrong.

As the visit was wrapping up, the doctor turned to me — even though you were right there — and recommended I find a caretaker for you. He warned that one day you wouldn’t be able to bathe alone and told me to get you a lanyard with our address in case you got lost.

I was stunned he could say that right in front of you.

I wondered whether he just didn’t care enough to see your awareness, or whether he knew you might understand but would forget anyway. Either way, fuck him, right? I wanted to grab one of those blue USMLE STEP 1 books and slap him with it.

———

After I returned to California, it felt like time with you was a window slowly closing. I wanted to slow it down, even a little, because I knew once it shut, I’d never be able to open it again, no matter how desperately I tried.

Fortunately, I started a software job, which made it possible to bring you and Mom out here, and you enrolled in a clinical trial at my school. As your caregiver, I learned that Alzheimer’s doesn’t fade in a straight line. It drops like a step function that only moves downward.

For a while, you seem the same, so it almost feels like nothing is changing. Then something happens, and there’s a sudden drop.

———

One evening after coming home from work, I remember we met briefly in the kitchen.

“You look tired. Are you busy these days?” you asked, your eyes full of concern.

Instead of answering, I gave you a firm side hug and jumped in the shower. When I came out, my hair still wet, you looked at me and asked, “Did you just get in?”

During my childhood, you were always the one behind the wheel. But six years have passed since you stopped being able to drive. In California, I drove us: to the gym, hiking trails, the hospital.

To help keep your mind active, we worked on Kumon books. You struggled with the basic problems, but you knew they were calculations you once did effortlessly. One day you asked me, “Do you think I can’t count?” After that, we quit the books.

I started checking in quietly with small questions.

One night at the dinner table, I pretended like I forgot the word for bulgogi and asked, “What’s that called again?” You paused and said, “밥” (rice) because you couldn’t remember the word anymore.

I’ll never forget that time before we left for a hike. You weren’t wearing your glasses, so I told you they were on the table, but you just stood there, scanning from left to right, unable to see what was right in front of you. Even with your glasses on, you struggled to recognize familiar objects.

I wanted to give you every chance to act independently, but the longer it took, the more impatient I became. And the more I tried explaining where it was, the angrier I could hear my voice getting.

Finally, I sighed, took off my shoes and handed you your glasses. I slammed my hand on your back, pushing you toward the entrance — too firmly like forcing a revolving door against the wind.

아빠, I’m so sorry. I think my anger was my heart saying:

I can’t bear to see you hurt, because you really mean the world to me.

———

In the basement of the Lucas Center, the researcher injected you with a tracer (18F-florbetaben) for your amyloid PET scan. I asked you if it hurt and you smiled and said no. Then you wondered if Mom was also getting tested.

I felt grateful that you didn’t understand why we were there.

아빠, the past few years have taught me that grief is cyclical. With each descent, the cycle repeats. But even as your mind dims, you still shine light on the feelings and needs of others, while your own world gently drifts into shadow.

———

After the clinical trial ended, and it was time for you and Mom to return home, we said our goodbyes at the airport. I had to finish my degrees and work to pay our bills, but it still felt like I was abandoning you. Later that night, Mom called and said you wanted to talk. You thought I didn’t say goodbye.

아빠, I realized then what it means to truly care for someone.

It means showing up for you even when you can’t remember that I did. What matters is that in those moments you felt my care and understood that I love you. It’s the difference between a noisy, babbling brook that’s one inch deep and a vast, great river with still, deep waters.

As I look toward the future, I often think about what kind of father I want to be, and I realize my children won’t know you like I do. As a Christian, I need to live my life so that others can see God’s love through my actions. In that same spirit, I hope whenever my children wonder what their grandfather was like, they’ll see glimpses of you — your kindness, compassion and strong will — reflected in me.

아빠, I’ll never forget the childhood you gave me on which I could build a good life. I’ll never forget your concern for the suffering of others and your desire to ease their pain. I’ll never forget that time I asked what you remembered about California, and you struggled to find the word graduation, but when you did, I let you walk ahead of me so you wouldn’t see me cry. And I’ll never forget how full my heart is because of your deep, unconditional love.

———

Lastly, 아빠, I know that in this season of life, it can feel like there’s no sun and everything is dark. One day, it might get so dark that you won’t be able to see me. But I’ll always be on the other side of this yoke with you. And when you’re feeling tired and weary, just rest your head on my lap.

I’ll pinch your earlobe gently and whisper: “I’m right here. You mean the world to me.”

The Daily has since published a more updated version of the original article. The Daily regrets this error.