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

I know our time together is coming to an end, but when I’m back home like I promised, I hope we can sit on a park bench by the water, and I’ll read this to you in the sunshine.  

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to care for someone. And naturally, my mind drifts to one of my earliest memories of you. I was in kindergarten, and you were so angry with me after I got cuts and bruises from playing rough in the playground. 

Your reaction felt surprising, but now that I’m older, I think I understand. 

I once 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, scrapped-up self through your pre-Alzheimer’s eyes, I see that your anger was really just your way of saying, I can’t bear to see you hurt, because I know what that pain feels like.

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 started middle school, you had opened a store in New York and didn’t need to travel. It was a pain in my ass to help you unbox and tag all the merchandise. But I saw your hustle and grasped the scale of what you had achieved — moving to a foreign country, starting a business from scratch and being invited to the Blue House in recognition of it. 

I remember shortly after the grand opening, a pregnant woman tried to steal some merchandise by tucking it into her stroller. It was the first time I’d ever seen a one-year-old act as an accomplice to a crime. But before she reached the door, you stopped her — not to scold her, but to ask which one she liked best. Then you smiled and told her to take it. 

Not long after this, life tested that grace. You got into a car accident, and both your health and the business went downhill. I knew we were heading toward bankruptcy and needed to study hard to rebuild what we’d lost. What I didn’t know was that, while I was trying my best in school, you were growing sick. 

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

Those words pierced straight through my chest, 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 up and couldn’t answer many of them. I wanted to believe your hesitation came from 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 sitting right beside me —and recommended I find a caretaker for you. One day, he said, you’d struggle to bathe on your own, and I should get you a lanyard with our address written on it in case you ever got lost. I remember feeling stunned that he could say those things in front of you. 

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

——— 

After I returned to California, I remember feeling as though time with you had become a window that was closing. I wanted to slow it down — even just a little — because I knew once it shut, I’d never be able to open it, no matter how desperately I tried. 

Not long after, I started a software job, which made it possible to move you and mom out to Santa Clara, and you enrolled in a clinical trial at my school. That marked the beginning of my two years as your caregiver — years filled with both light and shadow. 

As a caregiver, I realized that Alzheimer’s doesn’t fade in a straight line. It drops like a step function that only moves down with time. For a while, you look, talk and behave about the same that it almost feels like nothing is changing. But then something happens, and there’d be a fall. 

One evening after coming from work, I remember we spoke briefly in the kitchen. “You look tired. Are you busy these days?” you asked, your eyes full of concern. 

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

Ever since I can remember, you were always the one to drive. But it’s been six years since you lost that ability. In California, I’d drive us — to the gym, hiking trails, the hospital — but each time before taking off, I’d wait for you to close the passenger-side door. You’d run your hand along the inside, searching for the handle like a blind person sweeping their cane across the ground. 

I remember to help stimulate your memory we worked on Kumon books. Even though you struggled with the basic math problems, you understood that it was something you did effortlessly before. One time, you asked me, “Do you think I can’t count?” 

From then on, we quit the books, and I’d throw you questions subtly in conversation.

At the dinner table, I pretended I didn’t know the word for bulgogi and asked you, “What’s that called again?” You replied “밥” because you’d forgotten the word for it. 

I remember before we left to go on a hike, I noticed you weren’t wearing your glasses. 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 objects. 

I wanted to give you the autonomy to find them on your own, 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 and pushed you toward the entryway — 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 I know how it feels to be in pain. 

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 so 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. Denial (maybe he can’t read because he’s not wearing his glasses) 

Anger (why can’t he just close the door already) 

Bargaining (at least he lived 65 healthy years) 

Depression (fuck tteokbokki) 

And acceptance. 

But in the shadow of every fall, the light that cast it becomes easier to see.  

아빠, even as your mind dims and your body aches, 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 degree and keep working to pay our bills, but it still felt like I was abandoning you. After you guys landed, Mom called and said you wanted to talk — you thought I’d left without saying goodbye. 

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

To care for someone, truly, is to act in service of their needs even when they won’t remember that you did. The only thing that matters, truly, is that in those moments, you felt my care and understood 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 that leads me to realize my children won’t know you like I do. As a Christian, I know that I need to live my life in a way 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 deep concern for the suffering of others and your desire to ease their pain. I’ll never forget how you led by example, how your word was always your bond. I’ll never forget that time I asked what you remembered about California, and you struggled to find the word graduation, but when you finally 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 in this season of life, it can feel like there is no sun and it’s so dark. One day, it might get so dark that you won’t be able to see me, but you’re not alone. I’ll always be on the other side of this yoke, and when you’re feeling especially tired and weary, just rest your head on my lap. I’ll pinch your earlobe, gently, and whisper: I’m still here. 

I’ll be by your side till the end. I promise.