My dad called and asked if Mom had found a new boyfriend—even though she was sitting in the next room. Then he said he’d call Nana Betty, his mother who passed away before I was born.
In his mind, he was 18 again. Alzheimer’s had taken away his memories of Mom, of me, and of the life he built.
I broke down in tears, realizing how fast time and memories can fade. So cherish every phone call, take extra pictures, and hold your loved ones a little longer. You’re not alone.
The phone rang. Dad calling. Normal occurrence—children and parents talk regularly. Except this call wasn’t normal.
“Has Mom found a new boyfriend?” he asked. A strange question. An alarming question. Because Mom was sitting in the next room. Mom, his wife of decades. The woman he’d built life with, raised children with, grown old with. She hadn’t gone anywhere. But in his mind, she was gone. And he was… somewhere else. Some when else.
“Then he said he’d call Nana Betty, his mother who passed away before I was born.” That’s when the full weight hits. Dad isn’t just confused about Mom. He’s lost in time. Nana Betty died before his child was even born—decades ago. But to him, right now, she’s alive. Reachable by phone. Someone he can just call up.
“In his mind, he was 18 again.” Alzheimer’s had rewound his internal clock to adolescence. Before marriage. Before children. Before the entire adult life he’d lived. Eighteen years old, with a living mother, no wife yet, no children yet. That’s where his brain placed him. And everything that happened after—marriage, parenthood, career, grandchildren, decades of memories—gone. Just gone.
“Alzheimer’s had taken away his memories of Mom, of me, and of the life he built.” Not gradually in this moment, but revealed suddenly through this phone call. Dad doesn’t remember marrying Mom. Doesn’t remember his own child. Doesn’t remember building a life, creating family, becoming the person who raised them. The disease stole it all, leaving him stranded in teenage years with no knowledge of everything that came after.
“I broke down in tears, realizing how fast time and memories can fade.” Because this is your father. The man who raised you. Who built life with your mother. Who should remember you, should remember his own marriage, should know what year it is. And instead he’s asking if Mom has a new boyfriend and trying to call his long-dead mother. The cruelty of watching someone you love lose themselves is overwhelming.
“So cherish every phone call, take extra pictures, and hold your loved ones a little longer.” That’s the urgent message born from this heartbreak. We assume people will always remember. That parents will always know their children. That spouses will always remember being married. But Alzheimer’s proves those assumptions false. One day your father is himself. The next he’s 18 again and you’re a stranger.
The photo shows father and daughter together—smiling, close, present with each other. This is before. Before the phone call. Before Dad thought he was 18. Before he forgot everything. The daughter is preserving this image, this memory of when Dad still knew her. Because now, when she looks at him, he doesn’t recognize her. This photo is proof that once, he did.
This story matters because Alzheimer’s doesn’t just affect patients—it devastates families. Watching your father forget you, forget his own wife, forget his entire adult life is a unique kind of grief. You’re mourning someone who’s still alive but who’s lost to you in ways that feel permanent and cruel.
It reminds us that memory is fragile. We think our lives are solid—experienced events remain accessible, important relationships stay known. But for people with Alzheimer’s, decades can vanish. Life they built disappears. People they love become strangers. And there’s no guarantee when or how much will be lost.
And it’s urgent plea to appreciate people while they’re still themselves. Take extra pictures—not just for social media, but because someday these images might be only proof that person knew you. Cherish phone calls—even boring ones about nothing—because you might get one where they don’t remember who you are. Hold loved ones longer—because touch might remain meaningful even after words and memories fail.
Dad called asking if Mom found new boyfriend while she sat in the next room. Wanted to call his dead mother. In his mind, he was 18 again. Alzheimer’s had stolen Mom, his child, the life he built. Everything gone. And the child receiving this call broke down, understanding that time and memories fade fast. So cherish every moment. Take pictures. Hold tight. Because one day, the person you love might call and not remember you exist.