The Preamble

First, I can’t tell you the end. It’s elusive. It’s a story still unfolding as we speak. I have a glimpse of it, but I’m holding out hope for a plot twist.

Second, because this is about my mom and dad, I don’t want the truth of it—and the deep love I have for them—to be tainted by my feelings or by what I think should be told. I don’t want guilt or loyalty to soften the edges. I don’t want the pain of writing it to dampen my conviction to share it honestly.

This story is about love, family, loss, and the sneaky way death lingers upon us. It’s about seeing your parents fall from the thrones of superheroes and become real, flawed humans right before your eyes. It’s about watching the two most important people in your life stumble, and about making choices in response to that.

It’s about death, forgiveness, and acceptance.

But it’s also about unconditional love and unwavering loyalty. That’s the conviction that roots me through it all. A deep, powerful undercurrent of love runs through every part of the lives I write about here.

In fact, sometimes I can almost convince myself that this chaos was caused by love. But I don’t blame love. I thank love, with all her complexity, for she is the one thing that binds us through it all.

I wish this story could stay sweet and simple, because there truly is a beautiful tale here. But the “happily ever after” we all believed in is anything but.

I’m waxing poetic, hypothetically inviting in the halo of people affected by this story.

But let me get back to my mom and dad.

Let me start with the good and the sweet.

Because for a long time, that’s exactly what it was: good and sweet

Where It All Began

They were both 17. My mom was a “good girl”—no smoking, no boys, no drinking. Square. Prude. Nerd. At least, that’s how she would have described herself. She lived in Malibu later in life with her mom, dad, and three siblings, but they grew up in Arizona. Raised around horses, my mom always said the only time she felt truly alive was when she was with her horse. She and her sisters were kindred souls with their animals.

My mom’s horse was her soulmate, bringing out her true, confident nature. She might have been a shy, quiet girl, but on a horse, she was fearless. She and her sisters would ride bareback, backwards, sideways—standing up on the saddles, riding two horses with one foot on each across the plains. I wish I could’ve seen her then. The image I have of her in those moments is innocent, strong, and free.

I once asked my mom what the worst thing she ever did was. She thought for a long while and then giggled, telling me how she and her sister snuck up a hill, overlooking a friend’s house, and shone a big flashlight right into their living room window during dinner. Gasp! Criminal! There was also the time she “sort of cheated on a test,” but she felt so guilty that she confessed to the teacher, who let her off for being so honest.

Yep, that was my mom. So sweet. And if you knew me, you’d understand the horror and angst I must have put her through growing up. I was her polar opposite.

My dad’s upbringing was very different, and I’m definitely cut from his cloth. Unlike me, he came from a broken home. But like me, he was rebellious, bull-headed, and passionate about what he loved. He stole—sometimes to eat, sometimes just for fun—smoked, drank, and didn’t take crap from anyone. He learned early that no one in this world was handing him anything, so he worked for it.

And he worked hard. He eventually saved enough to leave home at 17, slamming the door and yelling “fuck you” to his father on his way out.

Credit to my dad—he slowed down his partying ways and kept working. He enrolled himself in college and was determined not to be the screw-up everyone thought he was.

Maybe six months into his newfound independence, he pulled into a gas station, and his life changed forever.

My mom and her friend were locked out of their car and frazzled. Seeing her, my dad, naturally, leapt into action.

According to my mom, her first impression of him was “not good.” But he popped the lock, she thanked him, and hurried off, wanting to be done with it. My dad, on the other hand, was smitten. He desperately tried to keep her talking, and in a last-ditch effort, handed her a form with a return address on it. He was part of a Good Samaritans club, and by mailing in the form, she’d give him credit for helping her.

To my mom’s credit—ever the good girl—she mailed the form the next day, just as she said she would.

Little did she know, my dad was the one receiving the mailed forms. And now he couldn’t stop thinking about her. A few days later, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

That weekend, he jumped into his VW bug and drove 2.5 hours up the coast to Malibu, to the address she’d written down.

As my dad approached her house, he noticed another car weaving ahead of him, also heading up the winding road. They both turned left, and to my dad’s surprise, they pulled up to the same address.

Out steps a man in a suit, holding a bouquet of flowers. He and my dad exchanged looks, both noticing the other’s contrasting appearance—one suited up with flowers, the other in jeans, sneakers, and a rolled-up white T-shirt. Neither said a word as they walked up to the door together.

The man knocked first, asking for her, while my dad poked his head around, doing the same. The man was there to return my mom’s wallet, which she had also lost during the car lockout incident. But judging by the flowers, he was hoping for more.

My grandmother answered, and after turning away the man with the flowers, she turned her attention to my dad. He explained why he was there and admitted he’d come to ask my mom out. Instead of turning him away, my grandma gave him the address of my mom’s dentist appointment.

So, my dad went to the dentist.

He hung out James Dean-style, leaning against the wall, waiting until my mom walked out.

Imagine her surprise when she saw him there.

That meeting did not go well. She was furious, demanding to know how he found her and why he thought it was okay to show up at her dentist. She soon asked him to leave, which he did.

But the next day, he showed up at her house again. This time, she was home. Lucky for him, my grandma answered the door and, in her spunky way, forced my mom to take a walk with him. Somehow, he charmed her, because from that moment on, they were inseparable.

At that point, my mom was in nursing school, and my dad was working at a restaurant and a student at Cal State Long Beach. He worked full time, going to school all day, working late into the night, and sleeping only to do it all again, five days in a row. Then, every Friday, he would drive up to Malibu in his VW bug to see her.

He quickly earned the affection of her family, who let him stay each weekend—in the guest room, of course. He’d drive back on Monday, repeating this routine for four years.

He graduated college, she graduated nursing school, and at the sweet, ripe age of 21, they got married.

The Early Days

That was 57 years ago. This past July 20th was their anniversary.

Their life really was like a fairy tale—super in love, super giddy, and sweet. They started building their little world. Dad kept studying, working toward his first master’s degree (he eventually earned three BAs, two master’s, and one PhD) and got a great, steady job in LA in aerospace. He always swore he couldn’t tell me exactly what he did because it was top-secret. Mom nursed for a while. My brother came along after two years, and I followed three years later.

We moved around with my dad’s aerospace job, but when I was five, everything changed. One of our neighbors, who owned a circuit board assembly company, was tragically killed in a plane crash. Helping his widow, my dad offered to help run the business.

I don’t know all the details, but my dad took a leap, left aerospace, and eventually took over the company, buying the widow out. Life changed for the better. Soon enough, we bought a big house, built a pool, and seemed to have an endless supply of money.

Dad worked a lot, but it allowed my mom to work less as a nurse and focus more on being the housekeeper and caretaker. I’m not sure she ever really liked that role, but at the time, she seemed content.

Both my parents seemed content with our newfound wealth. Mom got permed hair and fake nails. Dad bought a Mercedes, a truck, and a Corvette. We had ATVs, a cabin in the desert, and vacations to Hawaii and skiing trips during winter breaks. Life was comfortable. When I think back to my earliest memories of money, I just remember wads of cash lying around the house. “Easy come, easy go” was my dad’s motto.

My parents fought sometimes, mainly about me, but nothing that ever concerned me. They were stable, our lives were consistent, and they were “happy.” I, on the other hand, was the rebellious black sheep, my dad’s girl. My brother was my mom’s boy—the straight-A student, the ultimate nerd, who could do no wrong. I, of course, could do no right. We both played our roles well.

And my parents played theirs. They were, aside from spoiling us, really good parents. They went to our sports games, helped with homework, managed our teams, and studied with us. They were involved, consistent, and loving. We had family time. They were solid disciplinarians (maybe too solid), but through all their faults, we always knew we were loved.

I moved out when I was 18. My parents sold the company and bought land out in the country so my mom could have her horses again. They aimed for a quieter life. My dad, as a hobby, got his teaching credentials and became a math teacher at the high school in this small town. They sold our childhood home, and I moved into an apartment, attending junior colleges and finding my own path in the grown-up world. For a long time, everything seemed well.

My parents still had “lots of money” and built a fortress in the mountains—a 5,500 sq. ft. home on 40 acres. Horses, a barn, a house filled with warmth and peace. My mom loved that home. She was so proud of it—it was her dream. Every morning, she would walk or ride the horses on their property, soaking in the beauty. She often called just to tell me how grateful she was for her home, her horses, and her life. Looking back, I’ve never seen her so happy or content.

I have vivid memories of riding with my mom there, watching her connect with the horses like she did as a kid. My mom was an incredible rider. She found a horse named “Edge,” a former show horse, and for a long time, only my mom could ride her. But what a bond they had. My mom could make that horse spin, back up, side step, and run. She was fearless, just like when she was younger. It was glorious to watch her ride.

Once, while we were out riding with some friends, we came across a lake. My mom trotted around the other side, then called out, “Watch this!” She circled back, turned her horse, and galloped toward a flat rock perched over the lake. Holding our breath, we watched as she and Edge leapt from the rock into the water. It was a sight I will never forget. My mom had a smile I’d never seen before, a vibrancy I’ll always remember. She was alive, truly alive.

I lose myself in the good memories. It’s not a bad thing—it makes me happy and sad at the same time. I’m so grateful she had that happiness for a time.

But back to the story.

My brother and I grew up, did all the things kids do. I met the love of my life, got a job, bought a house, had two kids. My brother? More or less the same story.

That home in the mountains was everyone’s paradise. Our kids caught frogs and lizards, rode the horses, drove golf carts, and helped my mom cook. She even made compost, complete with fat, juicy worms that enraptured them for hours. My dad, ever the obsessive, built a 2,400 sq. ft. treehouse down the hill from their house. It had an elevator, a zipline, drawbridges, and multiple levels. The kids spent countless hours there, being kids.

As we grew, my parents settled more and more into their mountain home. Dad taught high school math, Mom took care of the animals and the house, and they just enjoyed life.

The Gambling Chapter

It wasn’t until I was 33, and my kids were 7 and 9, that things began to shift. My dad had always been outspoken and anti-union as a teacher, taking hard stances and pushing the envelope. When he became an administrator at the school, it was a poor fit. He clashed with teachers and colleagues, and before long, he either quit or was fired, making enemies in the small town.

Something shifted after that. Stress crept in. Life felt off, but we couldn’t put our finger on why.

That same year, my parents decided to sell the mountain home. They said it had become too big and too much to maintain, but in reality, my dad saw an opportunity to cash in during a high market. They made a lot of money, which seemed like a positive step into the next chapter of their lives.

My dad was proud of his wealth. He loved reminding us that he could “set us up for life,” and for a time, that was true. Our kids’ college funds were substantial, and my dad took pride in that. Growing up, money was never a concern, and my parents lived like it would never run out. When they sold the house, they decided to move to Hawaii for two years. They rented a beautiful home, lived the island life, and seemed genuinely happy.

But after two years, they missed the family and decided to move back. They rented here and there before settling on a small house in a quiet farming community. My dad, restless, took a part-time job at a local community college.

Things seemed okay, but we noticed strange, erratic behavior. He worked more hours, bought a Harley, and often disappeared for long rides. He wasn’t sleeping well and gained weight. He showered my mom with extravagant gifts—upgraded Harleys, a Porsche, a diamond necklace, and even brought her old horse from the mountain home to their new place. The spending seemed endless, but so did the stress.

My dad had always loved gambling. Looking back, his obsessive-compulsive tendencies fueled that addiction. He was methodical with lottery tickets, and he and my mom took frequent trips to Vegas. His obsessive behavior, once seen as dedication, now seemed like part of a sickness.

The gambling escalated, but my mom made excuses: “It’s his only way to relax.” She let him go to the casino to blow off steam. Then the lies started piling up. He’d tell her he was going on long Harley rides, only to sneak off to the casino. There was always an excuse when money went missing.

One time, he claimed he needed cash to buy a donkey for my mom because “she always wanted one,” but the guy selling it only accepted cash. When my mom asked why he needed to get the money from a casino, the story got more ridiculous—something about changing his mind and returning the donkey. There was no donkey.

Another time, he disappeared on a ride, and when questioned, he said he’d left his wallet hours away and needed to spend the night. It was another lie to cover a casino trip.

The stories kept coming. But my dad had complete control over their finances—he paid all the bills, managed the accounts, and my mom never questioned him. She trusted him completely.

Soon, money became the topic of every conversation. The market was “bad,” they were losing money on stocks, gold prices had dropped. He refinanced the house several times, always blaming the market for the financial strain. But I knew something else was going on.

The truth started to unravel when he showed up at my office one day, sobbing. He confessed he had withdrawn too much money from the casino and lied to my mom about it. He was so ashamed he couldn’t face her. It was the first time I saw how deep his addiction had gone. He promised to cut back. But the lies and casino trips continued.

A few weeks later, my mom called, hysterical. She had received another call from a casino about a cash withdrawal. He had told her he was out for a ride. She was hurt, confused, and angry, but by the next day, she convinced herself it was all a misunderstanding. That was the pattern—he lied, she forgave, and the cycle continued.

It got worse. All their investments—gone. Our kids’ college funds—gone. Credit cards—maxed out. The IRS was after him for unpaid taxes on his winnings. He was drowning in debt, but my mom didn’t realize how bad things were.

My brother and I staged an intervention. We sat him down and laid it out—he was a gambling addict, and he’d been lying for years. He admitted it, breaking down in tears. My mom had no idea how deep it ran.

Everything they had built was gone. The future he had promised us was gone. And the wife he loved so much, who had stood by him through everything, was left devastated, betrayed by the man she trusted most.

That intervention was only the beginning. What followed were weeks of tears, rage, guilt, and disbelief. Addiction is a heavy, suffocating force, and it dragged down everything around it—my parents’ relationship, my brother’s and mine, and our financial security.

My mom knew, deep down, but she didn’t want to face it. She had enabled it, whether knowingly or not, and it broke her. As for me, I had to confront the truth that everything I believed about our family’s financial stability was a lie.

The Messy Halo – Trying to Live with the Chaos

They decided the stress was too much and they needed a break. I think my dad wanted to escape the temptation of the casinos, and maybe the guilt that seemed to hang like a shadow in their home. So, they rented out their house, borrowed my grandparents’ RV, and set off for a grand tour of the U.S. The plan was to take a year, live on the road, see old friends, save money, and just relax.

Funny enough, they made it about 24 hours. They stopped in a hot, dusty trailer park in Yuma, Arizona, and while they were there, my dad got a job offer. It was a small position at an Indian reservation school. The pay was meager, but they needed it. So, my mom stayed in the stuffy trailer in Yuma while my dad worked day after day on the reservation.

For reasons I’m not sure of, that job didn’t work out.

But he found another one! Back in California, in the valley. They packed up again, drove back, rented a little track home, and my mom unpacked, trying to build a new life in yet another hot, small town.

That job didn’t last either.

So, they packed up again and moved to Lancaster. My dad took another job, while my mom—her health deteriorating and unable to get the surgeries or support she needed—tried once again to set up a new life in yet another town.

But that job didn’t last either.

Are you keeping up? Because I barely can. No new job leads were coming through, their money was almost gone, and they decided to go back to living in the RV. It was low-cost, they wouldn’t have to worry about rent or bills, and they could travel the U.S. again, like they had once planned.

They repacked, stored their belongings, and set off again.

And sure enough, another job offer came through. They returned, moved again, resettled again. My mom set up another home—again. But soon enough, my dad lost that job, too.

To his credit, my dad swore he had been “off the gambling wagon” for good. He just couldn’t catch a break.

By this point, they had moved through five jobs in five years. Their health was in decline, especially my mom’s. She needed surgeries. More importantly, she needed stability—her family around her. The constant moves, the stress—it was all too much for anyone to handle.

And bottom line? My dad couldn’t find a job.

So, they decided to return to their home, kick out the tenants, and see what would happen.

They moved back, borrowed money from my grandparents to survive, and we pitched in monthly to help them make ends meet. They sold my grandparents’ RV and kept the money to pay off bills.

And things just kept getting worse.

The Sickness Chapter

A few more years passed. My parents were living meagerly off a small pension, money from my dad’s father, and the support my husband and I provided each month. They stuck together through it all. My dad, riddled with guilt, stopped gambling for good, but the damage was done. The toll it had taken, both financially and emotionally, was irreparable.

The vibrant, lively couple they once were had become quiet and reclusive. They were still a huge part of our lives, still supportive of one another and deeply in love, but there was a sadness that lingered. It was as though life never truly recovered from the years of turmoil.

Both aged poorly. My mom was struggling with osteoporosis, and my dad had a host of health issues—most noticeably his restless leg syndrome. Then, about six years ago, my dad’s memory started to go. It was subtle at first, but my mom noticed. She had him tested, and the diagnosis came back: Lewy body disease. A cruel blend of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. His memory began to fade, his ability to think clearly disappeared, and it became obvious that he couldn’t process things rationally anymore.

In retrospect, it’s clear why he struggled to hold jobs during those last few years—his brain was slowly, quietly deteriorating. His decline was steady but unmistakable.

My mom, though frail and battling her own health issues, became his full-time caretaker. She was sharp, capable, and determined to help him. The tasks my dad had once handled—driving, cooking, daily routines—were now hers. For a few years, we watched as he became more forgetful, more emotional, and more frustrated with the world slipping away from him. It was hard to witness.

There is probably a whole chapter to be written about those years, about the slow, creeping decline. Day by day, the changes were subtle, almost imperceptible. But if you hadn’t seen him for a few months, the difference was stark. My dad, who once commanded a room with his passion and presence, was fading before our eyes.

Then, two years ago, my mom was rushed to the hospital with a blockage. It turned out to be intestinal cancer. The cancer metastasized, and though it was slow-growing, the surgeries to remove it left her with short bowel disease. She lost 40 pounds and could barely keep weight on. With my dad unable to care for her, I put my life on hold to care for both of them while she recovered.

She did get better, but by then, my dad’s decline was more pronounced. He couldn’t do simple tasks, needed constant direction, and the question hung in the air: What are we going to do? He’s getting worse.

Life, sadly, answered that question for us.

This past March, my dad was hospitalized for an intestinal blockage. His restless leg syndrome had him on heavy narcotics, but during his hospital stay, they took him off the medication cold turkey. It sent him into five days of hospital delirium. My once strong, passionate father was strapped to his bed, writhing, screaming that he was being tortured and hunted. Security guards had to hold him down.

He was never the same after that.

I always say he went from a four on the dementia scale to a ten in just two weeks. He became incontinent, unable to sit unaided. We had to move him into a $13,000-a-month specialized dementia care facility.

Four months later, in July, he died.

He suffered tragically in those final months, his decline rapid and terrifying. He lived in a state of terror and confusion, wracked by the disease that stole everything from him. It was horrific. My dad, the man who had once been so full of life and love, died under the weight of a sickness that was as cruel as it was unrelenting.

And now my mom is alone.

She kisses his urn every night, talking to it as if he’s still with her, trying to fill the void he left behind. She’s lost without him—her body frail, her spirit broken, wandering through the days without her lifelong companion.

I watched their love story come to an end.

I watched as this once vibrant, zealous man—who lived so passionately, who loved us all so deeply—was reduced to a shadow of his former self. He died with tremendous love in his heart for us, but also with guilt and sadness over his own demise. And now my 77-year-old mother, once so strong and graceful, is left alone, heartbroken, and lost.

Life is cruel in how it can strip us of everything we once were. One day you’re full of energy, full of love and passion, and the next, you’re a shell of the person you used to be—forgotten, trapped in a body and mind that no longer function. My parents’ love was imperfect, but it was real, and they lived through the highest highs and the lowest lows together. Their love was their strength, but it wasn’t enough to save them from the brutal reality of life.

The Path Forward

Now, it’s just my mom. She’s still here, but her heart is broken. This year has been brutal—four losses in a span of months. We lost my grandmother, my husband’s father, my own dad, and just recently, my dad’s father. Each death took something from us, but losing my dad took the most from her.

I’ve stepped into the role of caretaker now. My brother, as much as I’d like him to help, isn’t there. So the responsibility falls on me and my husband. I had to quit working to be there for my mom. And while I don’t resent it, the weight is heavy. My mother has no will to live, and every day I see her struggle with the same grief I carry—but magnified. She’s grieving not only for the love of her life but for the life they built together, now just memories.

I’ve watched this perfect love story collapse into one sad, lonely heart, and it’s hard to know how to nurture that when I’m grieving too. How do I give her hope when I’m searching for it myself? How do I help her find purpose again when every day is filled with sadness?

But this is life, isn’t it? It’s not always the fairy tale or the grand love story. It’s messy and complicated, filled with unimaginable loss but also, sometimes, tiny sparks of something brighter. There’s no getting around the grief, no skipping over the heartbreak. We have to let my mom mourn, give her the space to feel everything she’s feeling. But I also want to help her find something to hold on to—whether it’s her grandchildren, her memories, or something new that brings her peace.

For me, it’s about balancing the pain with the possibility of healing. Life doesn’t stop because we’ve lost so much. It’s unfair and unrelenting, but it keeps moving forward. And maybe that’s the answer. We move forward, too. We let ourselves feel everything we need to feel, and then we try—little by little, step by step—to rebuild something meaningful out of what’s left.

My mom may never be the same, and I may never see the vibrant, happy woman she once was. But I can still remind her that she’s loved, that she still matters, and that she’s not alone. I can help her find small joys, moments of connection, things to look forward to, even if it’s just a conversation or a walk outside. It won’t be easy, and there’s no magical fix.

But we’ll get through it. We have to.

There’s still life ahead, even if it looks different now. And that’s what I’ll hold on to. I’ll hold on to hope for my mom, and for myself, even on the hardest days. Because if we can hold on to hope, even just a little, maybe we can find a way to keep living, together.

---