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My dad has dementia. Today he turns 75. Some days, he thinks he is 17 and needs to get a job. I remind him that he doesn’t have to work anymore.

We don’t know what kind of dementia, because the last time he saw a doctor before he had to sign up for Medicaid was the 70s. He never got a scan. We just … noticed one day something was off. He started putting cat food in the oven. That sort of thing.

Dad and I were close growing up. I’d visit him in West Texas on holidays. We’d drive out to a mesa and shoot the .22 at orange juice cartons full of water off of railroad tracks. We’d paddle a canoe at Comanche Lake. We’d play old-school Dungeons & Dragons (2nd edition AD&D) with his friends and my uncles. I’d get scared of the monsters, and they’d have to talk me through it to keep playing. But together we told stories.

There were many other things. Dad introduced me to The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and Indiana Jones. He taught me photography, focusing on shooting black and white film with a Canon AE-1. He loved Ansel Adams, New Mexico, and Blues.

These are no longer shared memories. They are only mine now. Only things I like.

He never lived close. He moved further and further away. In high school, when I came up to visit one weekend, there was a for-sale sign in his yard. He and his girlfriend decided to move to Washington State one day. Half a continent away. He hadn’t talked to me about it beforehand; he wanted it to be a surprise.

That is where he is today, over 20 years later. Alone, on hospice, in an assisted living facility. They take wonderful care of him.

I visit when I can. It’s not often. Last year, I read him stories from Veritas’s Western Tales collection. I read him my novella, Sunrise Over the Valley. I read him excerpts from a Raymond Chandler novel. Just him and me in his room, drinking coffee, reading out loud stories I wrote or from authors we enjoyed.

I plan to see him again soon. We don’t have much time left. His heart is giving out. His hands and feet turn blue. He is short of breath and frequently needs oxygen. He sees things. He punches at his shadow and argues with it. He thinks he sees his deceased wife. Who knows what else? He won’t say.

There are different emotions that I feel when I think about Dad. There are a lot of them, and I feel them simultaneously. Not a few of them are negative. But some are good too.

Today, as I write this, I’m thinking about this 75-year-old man alone on his birthday. I’m thinking about the many times he left and moved away, about the hard life he sometimes had, and the choices he made. But I’m also thinking about my favorite thing he has given me, a love for stories.

I’m thankful for that.

One day, I might tell his story. Today, I’m happy to tell a little part of it that we had together.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

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