I am fifteen years old. My father has been living in a facility due to early-onset dementia. He does not know who I am.
Yet it is his birthday, and so I bake him a cake and take it to him. With his condition, I must feed him the cake.
As he does not know me, he is fixated on each bite of cake. He does not look at me. He looks at the spoon and at the cake.
Only at the spoon and at the next bite of cake. He does not see this fifteen-year-old he doesn’t know. The one who so longs to be seen.
Fast forward fifty years. It is my husband's birthday. Due to Lewy Body dementia, he lives in a facility. I obtain a cake, and I take it to him.
As he cannot use his hands or utensils, I feed him the cake. I do not miss out on the memories or the patterns or the pain.
This is different.
He knows me. Even with the advancing dementia, he knows me. He sees me. He relishes each bite of cake and gazes at the one feeding him. He sees me. And I see him loving me.
My dad. My husband. The dementia. The loss. The honor. The connection. The cake. The love. The feeding.
The love. The love. The love.
I remember every detail of not being known and of being profoundly known. Baked into those cakes was a love beyond words. Greater than dementia or memories. Greater than feeding or being fed.
Both of them are gone now, and yet they are both here. They are both great loves of my lifetime. I was blessed to have loved and fed and served them both.
In my own experience, that is my Easter story.
Crucifixion. Resurrection.
Loss. Love.
In my memories and in my heart and in this moment I am risen.
