{Part 3} Father’s Day Isn’t Easy for Everyone :: Grieving My Father
Welcome to Part 3 of my mini-series. As I reflect on the emotional complexity of Father’s Day, I want to honor who my father was — beyond the diagnosis — and share the story of his journey with dementia.
Although I grieve his passing, the feeling of loss — and of moments stolen — has been with me for a long time.
This post, and the series as a whole, is my way of remembering him fully — honoring not only how he left us, but how he lived and loved.
Who He Was Before Dementia
My dad, Hilton Gallien, was a family man who loved graciously. He married my mother, and together they had seven children. He spent every day loving, providing, and modeling selflessness.
His love for my mother was unmatched. As a deaf homemaker, she was viewed by many as unworthy of his love. My father made every effort to protect her and to dismiss these negative opinions. He never raised his voice or argued with her in my presence. When we asked him for something, he always deferred to her, by saying, “Go ask your mother.” My father’s love for my mother reminds me that I am also worthy of a healthy, happy marriage.
My dad prided himself on education. He spent years at Texas Southern University, working toward a diploma that was denied to him — despite returning multiple times to complete his coursework. It wasn’t until 2013, after his nieces — both TSU alumni — advocated on his behalf, that the university finally corrected the error and awarded him his bachelor’s degree in business.
My dad was frustrated about the denied diploma. It deprived him of his dreams of a white-collared career. However, instead of accepting defeat, he poured his hard work into his career as a welder. He often commuted 2-plus hours each way but returned home nightly to be with his family.
My dad built a house — that still stands — for his family. With our low-income, my parents made sure we never went without. My dad once bought a dilapidated one-story home, tore it down to the frame, and then reconstructed it into a two-story, eight-bedroom, four-bathroom home. With no formal training in architecture or construction. He built a home where each of us had a room to call our own.
My father exemplified dedication and instilled it in his children. We carry this with us in our personal and professional lives.
Here is one story of my dad that embodies the man he was: One day our ceiling fan stopped working. Rather than rush to fix it, my dad gathered the family around and led us in prayer. We gripped hands as he prayed over the fan with bold faith. Mid-prayer, the fan suddenly started spinning again — and never broke after that.
My dad’s faith, like his love, was steady and transformative. His unwavering faith became the foundation of our own, and I’m thankful for the integrity he modeled daily.
The Impact of Dementia
Dementia didn’t just take away my dad’s cognition — it robbed our entire family of the present and loving father we once knew. He was here, but not truly here.
We experienced the quiet grief of losing my father little by little. We first noticed his memory issues around 2013. When he finally received his long-delayed diploma, he couldn’t grasp the significance of the moment. And when I got married in 2014, he walked me down the aisle — but couldn’t understand or consent to giving me away.
My father’s dementia worsened the following year. By 2015, he no longer recognized his wife and children, spoke in complete sentences, or cared for himself.
He never got to guide me through my early years of marriage. He missed births, birthdays, and graduations. Dementia is a double-edged sword. It takes slowly, yet feels sudden. We all carry the weight of his absence.
For seven years, my mother cared for my father in the home he built — a labor of love that was anything but easy. My siblings and I helped as best we could, but when we could no longer manage his care, we made the difficult decision to place him in a nursing home where he could receive advanced care.
Our journey of caring for Dad through dementia reflects how deeply we tried to hold on to the man he was, even as everything changed. We hated that dementia stripped him of the strength and resilience he lived by. So, we did our best to ensure his life ended with the dignity he lived by.
Grieving His Loss
Despite ten-plus years of battling dementia, we lost our dad too soon. He was only 71 when he died. Since his passing, we struggle with grief, regret, and resentment.
As we approach our first Father’s Day without him, we recognize that Father’s Day is different. Grief and gratitude coexist now. My younger children are growing quickly — and they’re smart and resilient, like their grandfather. But when I look at them, reality sets in: their memories of Pawpaw are mostly visits to a nursing home and witnessing his decline.
Conclusion
If my story resonates with you — or if you’re grieving the loss of your father or father figure — I hope it brings you comfort. You are not alone in your grief. In Part 4, I’ll share the ways I continue to honor my father’s legacy, and offer ideas for how you can honor those who were taken too soon.
