Rachael Martinez
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RAchael’s dad suffers from FTD, a very rare form of dementia. In RAchael’s words “My dad was diagnosed on December 10, and on that day - the dr told my family that that was the day of his death. I lost him, that day. He doesn’t know I have kids, even though I bring them to visit, he wasn’t able to walk me down the aisle. So I’m grieving someone who is still alive - but not living.”
Hi Dad,
I wish I knew how to start this letter to you. I wish I had the perfect thing to say or some great introduction to mirror your greatness, to reflect my feelings towards you and our relationship. But I’m at a loss for words. I’m facing such a deep, profound loss and it’s not about starting this letter, it’s about you. I lost you. No, I’m losing you. Every. Single. Day. Every minute, I lose you a little bit more than the minute before. And there is nothing I can do to stop time, nothing I can do to save you. Sitting on the sidelines as this disease takes over your mind and body, feels like I’m watching a horror film and the worlds saddest drama ever created all rolled in to one. As hard as I try, I can’t turn away. I can only watch. Each time I come and see you, it takes a few seconds longer than the time before, for you to recognize me. Because you can’t talk anymore, you usually let out a holler so loud that it echoes in the nursing home. That’s how you say hello now. But there is a look in your eye and that’s when I know you see me and you know exactly who I am. Those are the moments I live for now. The moments when I know you remember. Visiting you is so very bittersweet. I so badly want to be near you, but you aren’t you anymore. You left along time ago.
So much has changed since you got sick. I got married, bought a house, had two gorgeous boys, and got my masters degree. I know you know Nick because you met him at the very beginning of your illness. We have been married for six years now and he is an incredibly good man. He has loved me through the hardest time of my life – losing you. And his love never faded or lessened. I often wonder how I got so lucky. Beyond being an extraordinary husband, he is an absolutely fantastic father. I so wish you could see us. Or at least realize what you’re looking at when we visit you. I have two unbelievably beautiful children. Maxwell Franklyn, who is 3.5 and Jack Marshall who is 21 months. Dad, out of all the things I wish you could see, its these two tiny humans. My boys are SO full of energy, love, light and wonder.
Your room is covered in photos of their smiling faces and when I see you look up at their photos, my heart feels like it’s shattering in to a million pieces. Like it’s not beating anymore. You don’t know them. And they don’t know you. But, when I slow down, and look closely at my children, I see you in them. I see you in their smiles, in their joy. I see you in their love for music and how they both instinctually know how to hold and strum a guitar. I see you in their eyes, but most importantly – I see you in their open hearts and loving spirit. I see you in their kindness and compassion and that’s when I fall more deeply in love with my children. That’s when I know you’re close. That’s when I feel whole.
One day, when they’re older – I’ll tell them all about you. I talk about you all the time, but it’s mostly your favorite ice cream flavor or what songs you loved to play on the piano. But when they can understand, I will tell them about my greatest first love. A gentle, protective love that was peaceful and fierce at the same time. A love that can never be duplicated. A love so strong and easy, effortless and warm. I love that will always live deep in my heart. I’ll tell them about you, Dad. After all you were my first love. I’ll tell my boys how you loved pink sunsets, guitars and music, the ocean and nature. I’ll tell them about your undying confidence, how smart you were and how ran 6 miles each morning. I’ll tell them how you used to take me rollerblading and how you chased the West High Football Team around the neighborhood for tee-peeing the cheerleaders who were staying at our house. I’ll tell them how you carried a jumbo maxi pad in your swimsuit in Jamaica for me as we hiked the waterfalls together. I was a bitter 14 year old and you still enjoyed me. I’ll tell them how genuinely you loved my mom and how I learned what marriage ought to be from watching you treat her like a queen. I’ll tell them you were math tutor, you didn’t miss a cheer competition and you greeted every one you met with a handshake and a smile. But most importantly, I want them to know how parts of you shine through them and through me. I’ll tell my boys how lucky they are to be apart of you and to be raised in the shadows of your lessons. I’ll tell them you love, because I know you do. I love what you have unknowingly taught me about parenting and how you made it seem so effortless. I love how you taught me the importance of love and compassion. Because that’s what it’s all about. Our hearts, and who they beat for.
Watching you die a gradual death is the hardest thing I have ever done. I can’t compare it to anything, some day’s I can’t even believe I am living this awful nightmare. But, if anything, you’ve selflessly given up your life to help me refocus mine. Losing you slowly and way too soon has caused me to slow down and enjoy the little things. It’s taught me to take risks and be ok not having a plan, to say yes more than no and to choose love over everything else. It has shown me how fleeting life really is. Thank you for your continuous lessons. And thank you for the twenty two years you spent loving me, protecting me, teaching me, and nurturing me.
There will never be a day when I won’t think of you. I am forever grateful for you and that you are my dad.
I love you as big as the sky,
Rachael
Rachael lives with her husband Nick and their two babies - Max and Jack. She’s a full time mama, living in Playa Del Rey.