This Body is Bullshit

My dad is a character. Capital C.

My dad grew up as a farmer in a super small town in Central Illinois that no one’s ever heard of. His dad was a state representative and farmer, and his mom was a teacher. He wrestled at Southern Illinois University, flew little planes, sold designer suits, and had a best friend who was a NASCAR champion. The man has stories. He tells them slow, and they’re getting slower—but he loves making people laugh, even if he’s told you the same one six times.

He’s always been a wild one. A total badass back in the day—riding Harleys, getting into fights (the kind that end with broken noses), and the time he straight-up made a citizen’s arrest of an attorney he thought screwed him over. Handcuffed the guy, put him in his car, and drove him all the way from Carbondale to Chicago. Made the front page of the Sun-Times. My mom was horrified. Tried to keep it a secret. But I wasn’t surprised—he told me he was going to do it weeks before. That’s who he was: unpredictable, wild, and absolutely sure he was in the right.

These days, he’s softer. Slower. Still funny, still trying to make everyone laugh, but different. Smaller, somehow—though his mustache and eyebrows are still enormous. 2eyebrows.and.a.mustache on Insta.

He’s slipping.

He knows it, sort of. He admits he has memory issues. He’ll tell you flat-out that he forgets things. But the minute you try to talk about how bad it’s getting, he shuts down—or gets mad. I’ve tried to talk to him about getting turned around while driving, or about the time he got lost walking the dog in the woods. But he won’t have it. He insists it didn’t happen or blames it on bad directions, or construction, or “someone else’s fault.” I try to use softer words—say “turned around” instead of “lost”—but it doesn’t help. He gets agitated, and I get scared. Because it’s getting worse. Maybe not day to day, but definitely week to week.

It’s terrifying not knowing how far this will go. I just want him to understand what’s happening so we can help him. I’m anxious to get him in for more testing and follow-up with the neurologist. I’m hopeful, but I’m also heartbroken. I hope there’s never a day he doesn’t know who I am.

And I feel helpless watching my stepmom, Kathy, carry so much of this alone. She’s his whole world—he’s obsessed with her, in the sweetest and most exhausting way. He’s completely dependent on her, and while it’s beautiful how much he loves her, it’s also a lot. For her. For us. I try to help, but I don’t live with it every day like she does.

Despite everything, he’s still him. He carries dog treats in his pockets everywhere he goes—like a dog whisperer on patrol. He’ll light up when he sees you, like you haven’t seen each other in years, even if you were just there last week. He’s still a hardcore Democrat and lives to rant about how much he hates Donald Trump. Some things, at least, haven’t changed.

But this slow fade? It’s crushing. Watching someone who once seemed larger than life shrink in this quiet, relentless way—it breaks your heart in real time.

And I don’t know what to do except write it down. Try to hold onto him while I still can. And hope he keeps holding onto me too.