"A Daughter's Story: Our First Holiday After Dad's Diagnosis"

Editor's note: This story reflects the experiences of many families navigating the holidays after a dementia diagnosis. While the specific details are composite, the emotions are universal.

We found out in September. Not the dramatic, made-for-TV kind of finding out, but the slow, dawning kind — the kind where you already know before anyone says the words. Dad had been forgetting things for a while. Names of grandchildren. Where he put his keys. Whether he'd eaten lunch.

Then one day he got lost driving home from the hardware store he'd been going to for thirty years. That's when we finally made the appointment.

Alzheimer's disease, early-to-moderate stage. The doctor was kind. She talked about medications, about planning, about "quality of life." I don't remember most of what she said. I just remember looking at Dad, and him looking back at me like he was apologizing.

"I'm still me," he said in the car on the way home.

I couldn't speak. I just held his hand.

By November, I was dreading the holidays. Every year, our family gathers at Mom and Dad's house for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Aunts, uncles, cousins, the whole sprawling mess of us. Dad has always been at the center — carving the turkey, telling the same stories he's told for decades, sneaking extra cookies to the grandkids.

How could we do that now? How could we pretend everything was normal when nothing was?

I thought about canceling. Suggesting we keep it small this year, just the immediate family. But Mom wouldn't hear of it. "He needs his family," she said. "We all do."

So we planned. We called ahead, letting people know what to expect. "Dad's memory isn't what it was. He might not remember your kids' names. He might repeat himself. Please just go with it." Most people responded with kindness. A few didn't know what to say. That was okay too.

Thanksgiving morning, I woke up early and found Dad in the kitchen, standing in front of the open refrigerator.

"I was going to make coffee," he said. "But I can't remember where we keep it."

It's been in the same cabinet for forty years.

I wanted to cry. Instead, I walked over and put my arm around him. "How about I make it, and you keep me company?"

He smiled. "Deal."

We sat at the kitchen table together while the coffee brewed, not talking much. The sun came through the window. It was, somehow, one of the most peaceful moments we'd had in months.

The gathering itself was harder. So many people, so much noise. I watched Dad's face and saw the confusion creep in — who was this person hugging him? Why was everyone laughing? He didn't want to admit he didn't remember, so he nodded along, smiled, and slipped away into himself.

By mid-afternoon, I found him in his study, sitting in his old reading chair, looking at a photo on the wall.

"You doing okay?" I asked.

"There are a lot of people here," he said.

"There are."

"I used to know all their stories. Now I just see faces."

I sat down on the floor next to his chair, like I used to when I was little. "You don't have to remember their stories, Dad. They remember yours."

He reached down and patted my head. "You were always my favorite," he whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. I laughed. It was an old joke between us — he said it to all three of his kids. But this time, I wondered if he remembered it was a joke, or if he'd just found his way back to something true.

Here's what I learned that first holiday season: you can grieve someone who's still alive. You can miss the person they were while sitting right next to the person they are. And both of those things can be true at the same time.

But I also learned this: the moments are still there. They're just different now. Smaller. Quieter. You have to watch for them instead of expecting them to announce themselves.

Dad didn't carve the turkey that year. He couldn't follow the conversation about politics. He called my daughter by my name and didn't recognize his own brother at first.

But he laughed at my uncle's terrible jokes. He held my mom's hand during grace. He fell asleep in his chair after dinner with a grandchild curled up next to him, both of them snoring.

That's still family. That's still the holidays. That's still love.

We're doing it again this year. We've made more adjustments — quieter spaces, shorter visits, more flexibility. We've learned to follow Dad's lead, to let go of what the holidays "should" look like.

It's not what I imagined. It's not what any of us imagined. But there's still something worth gathering for.

If this is your first holiday season after a diagnosis, I want you to know: you will find your way. Not around the grief, but through it. And somewhere in the middle of all that loss, there will be moments of grace you didn't expect.

Watch for them. They're there.

Call to Action: If your family is navigating the holidays after a dementia diagnosis, you're not alone. Geriatric Care Solutions' Montessori Care program supports families through every stage with compassion and expertise. Call 1-888-896-8275 or email ask@gcaresolution.com.