Holding On to Dad

Some days, Dad thinks I’m his brother. Other days, he just calls me “that nice man.” I smile either way. I’ve learned not to correct him—it only confuses him more. Instead, I focus on what I can give him: comfort, dignity, and a familiar face.

Dad was a builder, the kind who could fix anything with his hands. Now, those hands tremble trying to hold a spoon. He hates needing help. I see it in his eyes when I dress him, like a quiet apology he can’t say out loud.

It’s not easy. I miss our old chats, his jokes, the way he used to make Sunday roast dinners. But there are still moments. Moments when he hums his favourite tune or gently pats my hand without knowing why.

I used to think being a carer meant giving everything. And it does—but it also gives something back. A different kind of closeness. A love that’s quieter, deeper, forged in everyday tasks and shared silences.

Every day with Dad is a mix of loss and love. But I’m here, holding on—for both of us. Because once, he carried me. Now it’s my turn to carry him.

By Peter.L