The Moth Radio Hour: Who's Got Your Back?

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This is the Moth Radio Hour.

I'm your host, Meg Bulls.

Who has your back?

Who are the people you lean on?

For many, that job falls to family, biological or chosen.

In this hour, stories of relationships that see us through.

The people who stand by us and keep us us out of harm's way.

Our first story comes from Ryan Rowe.

He told it at a main stage event we produced in Philadelphia.

Live from the Kimmel Cultural Campus, here's Ryan Rowe.

When I was in fourth grade, that's when we as students could pick an instrument to take lessons in and play in the school band.

And I chose the trombone for two reasons.

The first one was that there was this cute girl named Jessica who told me that she was going to play the saxophone.

And I had heard that the saxophone players and the trombone players took lessons together.

Now, the reason I didn't just also play the saxophone was that the buttons scared me.

And the second reason I chose trombone was that my dad is a phenomenal trombone player.

For many years he played in the Marine Corps band and he traveled around the country playing with them.

He was based in New Orleans and he played in a lot of the jazz clubs there.

And then after that he became an instrument repairman.

So a lot of my memories as a child were of hearing him test the instruments in our house playing his favorite songs.

And I just loved the sound of the trombone.

So I felt like if I played trombone that would make him proud.

Now, the only other trombone player in the school was a fifth grader named Gina.

And for months, Gina and I took lessons with our music teacher and after all this time spent practicing, I just sounded terrible.

Like, the noise that came out of my trombone sounded like a hive of angry bees, yet somehow more alarming.

And, you know, it's a really hard instrument to play for a fourth grader because you have these little fourth grade arms, and

you can't even reach far enough to hit a C note.

And what's more embarrassing is that when you have an instrument that has a lot of like valves and reads and keys, if it sounds bad, you can sort of blame it on the instrument.

But when it's just one long horn, if it sounds bad, it's 100%

your fault.

Like I even came to my dad at one point and I was like, this thing's busted.

And he's like, here's the thing, no, it's not.

But the only consolation I had in all this was that Gina was also terrible.

So as long as she was embarrassing herself, I felt fine embarrassing myself.

Until two weeks before our first concert, Gina decides to quit.

Now up and leaving me as the only trombone player in the whole school, and my music teacher is worried.

But that week, my dad came in for a parent-teacher conference, and he met with my music teacher and mentioned to her that he played trombone.

And she goes, wait, would you like to play in the winter concert with the fourth graders?

And he's like, I don't know, this is their thing.

I don't want to take anything away from it.

And she's like, please,

will you play in the winter concert?

So he accepts, and when he comes home and he tells me about it, he actually seems really excited about it.

And I had to be like, that's awesome, Dad.

I'm excited too.

Because at this age, my biggest fear was being the center of attention.

I just wanted to blend into the background.

I did not want to be sitting in the front row with Jessica on my left and an adult man on my right.

But the concert comes around, and we're holding it in our dimly lit elementary school cafeteria.

It was one of those cafeterias that weirdly has a full stage and curtains.

As if they're trying to make the students think, like, will there be dinner and a show?

Who knows?

And the families are all there in their metal folding chairs.

Suburban moms have their 30-pound camcorders armed and ready.

You can still smell the remnants of Taco Tuesday.

And if you look close enough at the floor, you can see the remnants of Taco Tuesday.

And the drummers, they were lucky.

They got to sit all the way in the back, along with this kid named Evan, who had a triangle because he wasn't really to be trusted.

And every family that walked into the room instantly looked in my direction and had a confused look because it was exactly as I had predicted.

Me in the front row, Jessica on my left, and my adult father on my right.

And we begin playing the first song, and immediately my dad and I are in a competition to see who can play the quietest.

I'm playing quietly because I don't want people to hear the noises coming out of my trombone.

My dad is playing quietly because he doesn't want to upstage a bunch of nine-year-olds.

We're both playing so quietly that the music teacher is waving her wand at us and mouthing, get louder now.

But we get through the blue Danube.

The Carnival of the Animals goes a little better.

And by the time we get to the funeral march, I can finally relax.

But the last song that we played was What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong.

And you guys know it, it's a very soft and slow song.

It's a bit easier to play on an instrument.

And as I'm playing, I start to listen to my dad play next to me.

And I'm hearing him hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next.

And then I look out into the crowd, and I can see everyone else's dad sitting there.

And then I look over at my dad, and he's smiling because he's having the time of his life playing the instrument that he loves with his son that he loves.

And I felt really lucky to be playing next to my dad.

I finally felt like this is a really special thing.

I should cherish it.

And he ended up playing in every concert we did

for the next five years.

We had zero new trombone players every year for five years.

So we just kept inviting him back.

And it was awesome.

I loved it every single time.

I was never embarrassed about it.

I always looked forward to it and it was always a special moment.

So much so that when I got to high school and there was some upperclassmen that played trombone, I was no longer the only trombone player so he didn't need to play with us anymore.

And I only ended up playing one more semester before I decided to quit because it just wasn't as fun fun anymore.

Something felt missing.

So I moved on.

Fast forward to just a few years ago, I was taking a road trip through the south and I stopped for a day in New Orleans.

And I was really excited because my dad had told me so many things about New Orleans.

And the whole experience just felt magical walking around the city because I kept thinking to myself, this is my dad's home when he was my age.

And I ended the day by going to a jazz club called Preservation Hall.

And it's a really small club with these guys that play Dixieland Jazz.

And they sat me right next to the trombone player.

And I'm having a great time listening to these guys.

They're so talented.

And then right before they ended the show, a guy came up from the back of the room and handed the lead man a $5 bill and asked him to play What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong.

And as I'm listening to the trombone player hit every note perfectly and smoothly transition to the next,

I become overwhelmed with emotion

because

I was being transformed back into being fourth grade Ryan.

And I felt so lucky that I got to have those special moments with my dad.

And so when I got back home, I went to my parents' house and I told my dad all about it and I thanked him for what he had done all those years ago.

And then I went up to the attic and we had kept my trombone this whole time.

So

every now and then my dad and I will still get that musical itch and we'll go up to the attic and we'll break out our trombones and I open up the case and I smell that sweet brass smell.

And I put the horn and the slide together and you just hear all the familiar sounds.

And when I begin playing, I'm immediately reminded of how terrible I am.

But he hits every note perfectly and that's the fun part for me.

Thank you.

Ryan Rowe is a regular participant at our monthly Moth Story Slam in Philadelphia.

He and his father are currently planning a trip to New Orleans together.

It'll be his father's first time back since he lived there.

The night that Ryan told this story, he invited his parents to the show.

They had no idea what story Ryan was planning to tell.

During intermission, after Ryan had taken the stage, his parents found him and they were emotional and hugging him.

And when they returned to their seats, the people around them in the audience were like, wait, you're the guy, you're the guy's dad from the story, and treated him like a mini celebrity, which he apparently really enjoyed.

You can see pictures of Ryan and his father playing the trombone on our website, themoth.org.

Our next story comes from Eldon Smith.

He told it at the Aaron Davis Hall in Harlem.

Here's Eldon live at the moths.

Thank you.

We were at the Augusta River walk.

Me and my girlfriend have been together for a while now, but I really hadn't made a connection yet with her two kids.

I tried.

I would bring bags of cookies home from the Keebler plant I was working at.

They just sit on the table untouched till they finally disappeared.

It was like they didn't want me to see them take those cookies.

It was just cookies here and cookies gone.

Whenever

I would come home, I'd make sure I spoke to both of them.

They wouldn't even bother making eye contact.

We'd go to the minor league baseball games.

I'd buy the pretzels, the hot dogs, all the stuff.

They'd stick around long enough to get that food, then they were off to play with the other kids.

See, they were growing up without a father in their life.

And I knew how important my father was in mine.

Me and my dad might not have always seen eye to eye, but he was always there.

And I felt that.

But to them, I was just E, mama's boyfriend.

So now we're at the river walk.

I see TT, she was about six, old enough to know better, throwing rocks at the ducks.

And as gently as I could, I said, TT,

you know you shouldn't be throwing rocks at the ducks.

You don't want to hurt them.

She turned around.

She put her little hands on her hips and she screamed, you ain't my daddy.

But a few weeks later, I was sitting in the living room watching Sunday night football.

And Sam, her eight-year-old son, walked in and he had this piece of paper in his hand.

It was a permission slip.

He wanted to know if I would would go with him and his Pee Wee League football team to a college football game that upcoming weekend.

At first, I couldn't believe my ears.

I said, for real?

But quickly said yes before he had the chance to change his mind.

Monday I went to work and I was over the moon.

I felt I was finally over the cusp.

I was beginning a relationship with the leader of the pack.

And I could go from there.

Tuesday I went to work with my brother.

He owned a landscaping company and as a side hustle I worked with him.

He had just received a contract for a housing project.

There was a lot of landscaping that needed to be done.

I wasn't wearing a mask and it aggravated my asthma.

But I was used to that.

I walked around with the asthma inhaler in my pocket.

To be honest, I wasn't in the greatest shape.

I smoked every day, had a beer or two,

maybe a little gin.

But with the work I was doing, I stayed on my feet, so it felt like the two would just balance themselves out.

I got home that night, my girl took one look at me, and she said, Are you okay?

You don't look all right.

I said, Oh, it's just the heat, the dirt, all that grass is just getting to me.

But I woke up Wednesday morning and it felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest.

But I got up, I went to work, and as the day went on, it got harder and harder to breathe.

By the time I got home, my girl took one look at me and she said, you're not okay.

I could see it in your eyes.

And as I went to tell her I was fine, I sat down and realized I couldn't get a breath.

It felt like my chest was filling with quick, dry cement.

With my last gasp, I said, hospital.

Man, she jumped up like lightning and hit the spot she was sitting.

She rounded up the kids and Sam, he helped me to the car.

I could see that he was scared.

I wanted to tell him I'm fine, but I was suffocating.

On the way to this hospital, this woman ran every stop sign, every red light, while screaming at every car we passed.

I didn't even think the asthma attack was going to kill me.

But I was sure this is how we were all about to die.

But we pulled into the roundabout at the emergency room, and I could barely stand up.

Sam helped me through the entrance.

As soon as we burst in, he started screaming.

He can't breathe.

He can't breathe.

It was just like on television.

I wanted to be their protector.

And here he was trying to save my life.

It felt like everything in that hospital was moving in slow motion.

The nurse calmly got up.

She brought me a wheelchair and she took me to a room near the nurse's station.

She put a mask over my face, and then she left.

I began to panic.

I just started talking.

I said, I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

I don't want to die.

Please don't let me die.

I was talking to God.

Because there was no one else in the room.

And I closed my eyes and I seen this vision of this nurse.

She had this beautiful dark skin.

She was wearing one of those old nurses' uniforms with the long white dress and the little white hat.

And in the most assuring voice, she said, I'm not going to let you die.

I said, I don't want to die.

She said, you're not going to die.

I said, I can't breathe.

Then everything started to go black.

And all of a sudden, that room erupted.

There were so many people people in there that they were spilling out into the hallway.

I heard this nurse say, I'm going to give you a shot.

You're going to feel like you're on fire.

Then you, you won't feel nothing at all.

And that's what happened.

When I woke up, the room was bright.

Everything was calm.

And my dad was standing right there.

The first thing I said was,

I can't stay here overnight.

I've got to take Sam to a football game this upcoming weekend.

And with this bewildered look on his face,

he said,

but baby, today is Sunday.

What do you mean it's Sunday?

It was Wednesday when I walked into this hospital.

He explained that I had been in ICU for the past four days while they cleared out my lungs.

I was placed in a medically induced coma.

I call it a reboot.

Machine not working, power off,

reset.

They were able to save everything to memory because when I woke up mentally, I was still in Wednesday.

Tears just started falling.

It wasn't supposed to be this serious.

I was supposed to go to the hospital, get a breathing treatment, a cortisol shot at the most,

and be back home before the night was even over.

But my lungs had stopped working.

My dad had been telling me

to stop smoking.

He told me that the doctor said I was a fighter because I could have died.

He said, I told you that you've got to change.

But now you've got a family.

Man, you've got kids.

You've got to be here.

And I knew he was right because I couldn't escape the feeling that I had let Sam down.

I didn't get to take him to that football game.

And I almost missed a chance to ever make it up.

Wake-up calls, all that.

But something had to change.

I spent the next few months recovering, so there were no more outings for a while.

But me and the kids, we were getting closer.

They wouldn't let their mom pass a sonic drive-through without stopping to get me my favorite drink.

A large cranberry slush.

I noticed that they weren't so eager to run off.

They'd even let me get in on the video games.

We'd play Madden football, NBA 2K.

Me and Sam would sit down and watch games.

We'd talk.

Sometimes we'd all just sit in the living room as a family and just watch movies.

But after my recovery,

we were able to get out again.

And the first place we went was the Georgia Aquarium.

And I didn't have to tell TT to stop throwing rocks

because she was holding my hand.

That Wednesday night at the hospital, it bonded us.

And ever since then, I've made it a point to let those kids know

I am here for them no matter what.

And as long as I'm able,

I always will be.

Thank you.

Eldon Smith hails from Augusta, Georgia.

He's an ardent storyteller and devoted father, and likes to describe his life as a beautiful tapestry of family, passion, and artistic expression.

TT and San are thriving.

TT is a teacher, and though they are both all grown up now, they continue to have a very close relationship.

To find out more about Elden and learn how to hear more of his stories, go to our website, themoth.org.

Coming up, swimming across the Danube in search of freedom, when the moth radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

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This is the Moth Radio Hour.

I'm Meg Bowles, and our next story comes from Zilka Need.

She told it at St.

Anne's in the Holy Trinity Church in Brooklyn, New York.

Here's Zilka live at the Moth.

I was born behind the Iron Curtain in Brandenburg, East Germany.

The close proximity to West Berlin enabled us to watch Western TV.

Even though it was strictly forbidden, we did it anyway.

I remember watching an old American series, The Streets of San Francisco, and was trying to imagine what it would feel like to be that free.

I remember looking at West German travel magazines and picturing myself at the beach in Spain or skiing in Austria.

I always dreamed about walking through the Brandenburg Gate, which divided East and West Berlin, and at some point you were able to move freely through the gate.

However, that was no longer possible.

My mom's family escaped from

East Germany to West Germany, including my mom's brother.

And my mom and my dad, they also wanted to leave East Germany.

however my mother still had two more two more years left to finish her master's degree

during the time my mom was still in school the Berlin Wall was built and my parents were trapped

in 1978 my parents hatched a plan to escape from East Germany The plan would include for us to swim across a river which was roughly two miles wide and we estimated it would take about two to two and a half hours to swim.

So we had a cabin by a lake that enabled us to swim in the summertime without being detected so nobody would suspect what we were doing.

In the winter time we would go to the pool and we would swim up and down and up and down and the lifeguard even asked us, isn't it kind of boring?

We're like, oh no, we're good.

Now if you would only knew what we were up to that would have been the end of it.

See, I couldn't tell anyone, especially not my friends and my grandfather.

If I would just so much as uttered the word,

my parents may have been arrested.

And the minimum sentence was eight years and an additional four years of trying to take a minor out of the country.

So we planned our next vacation according to the moon so we wouldn't be easily detected on the water because the moon on a full moon on water is like daylight.

you see everything.

In 1979,

roughly two weeks after my 14th birthday, we set our plan in motion.

We were packing up the car, and I met the maid the bed on the back of the car.

And as we were driving away from our apartment, and it was getting smaller and smaller, I was wondering where will I be at the end of the summer?

Would I be free?

Would I be dead?

Or back in East Germany?

The The plan included my uncle driving from the west to Romania and we were all supposed to meet in a town called Orshorva in Romania along the Danube.

We were setting up camp at the Danube and on the campground we were greeted by some Romanian campers.

And they told us, well, you know, the Romanian Border Patrol just shot and killed some people just the night before and they left their dead bodies in the water.

I wasn't wasn't so sure I still wanted to escape that day.

Very next day, we drove down to the riverside and we hid along the river in the brushes until darkness fell.

While we were sitting there waiting, my uncle was in his hotel room overlooking the river, trying to monitor the activity on the river and then would give us a signal when it was all clear to swim for us.

The signal would be for him to stand on the balcony with the lights on behind him and his arms stretched out wide.

Around midnight, I finally found his hotel room and saw the signal and I know all was clear.

It was time to go.

As I was taking off my clothes and only wearing a bathing suit, putting on my flippers,

I was terrified.

I was shaken like a leaf.

It was surreal, eerie, just like an experience I never felt before.

Slowly, very slowly, I make my way into the water with my parents by my side, not trying to make any splashes because at night everything amplifies.

Once in the water, all that fear disappeared.

It was almost trance-like,

just running on pure adrenaline.

Roughly about an hour into our swim, all of the sudden I look and there's a searchlight that comes from the border patrol boat and it comes around and instinctively I just whispered dive so my parents and I went under the water and then slowly come back up and as we were coming back up that searchlight comes around one more time and again dive

we hover slowly come back up And fortunately, that boat has moved on.

See, we were too close for the searchlight.

We were too close to to the boat for the searchlight to catch us.

Another,

almost two hours into our swim at that point,

I could feel that my legs were cramping and I tucked my mom's arm and said, mom, I can't make it anymore.

So my mother dragged me the last few meters to shore.

Finally, I feel the ground underneath my feet.

As I was laying there, soaking wet, all of a sudden I hear some rustling in the brushes and I turn and I look

and I look at a German shepherd and his handlers.

They were yelling at us in Serbian and we didn't understand a word they were saying.

So my mom

was begging them in Russian not to shoot us while my parents were shielding me with their bodies.

The plan for my uncle was to drive across the border from Romania to Yugoslavia while we were swimming and then pick us up on the Yugoslavian side and then take us to freedom.

So the Border Patrol tied us up and as we were walking on the street, I saw my uncle's car along the side, but I didn't see him.

I had no idea where he was and he didn't know where we were.

We were taken to the Border Patrol house.

and were interrogated all night.

They asked us, who were we?

What did we do?

Who Who helped us?

What did we want?

After an exhausting night we were taken to the next bigger city the following day and put into a jail cell.

Now each one of us had our own jail cell and at 14 years old that's pretty terrifying.

We were then introduced to an inspector.

After they finally realized we are family.

And the inspector took care of our case.

He told us that the first three days were very critical because they didn't know would they send us back to East Germany or would they let us go free.

About two weeks into our captivity, the inspector told us that we were to go to

Belgrade, the then capital of Yugoslavia, where we can request asylum.

At that point, I knew we were going to be free.

Once we arrived in Belgrade, it was time to say goodbye to the inspector, and I will never forget him because I believe he's in part responsible for my freedom.

As we were walking towards the West German embassy,

I look and on the right side of the corner of my eye, I can see the East German flag and the East German guard.

My blood froze in my veins.

I was terrified.

I stopped breathing.

I swear that God could see SKP written all over my face.

Because in order order to get to the West German Embassy, we had to pass the East German Embassy.

They were right next to each other.

Finally, we set foot into the West German embassy and my mom kept asking, is this the West German Embassy?

And after an eternity, somebody finally answered and said, yes, ma'am, it is.

I'm looking at my parents and they're crying.

And I asked my dad, I said, why are you crying?

And he said, we are free.

We are finally free.

My parents and I settled in a town called Permesens in the southwest corner of Germany.

And in 1989, the wall finally fell.

I remember watching it on TV unfold with my parents.

It was just an incredible moment.

We're hugging, crying, trying to reach our friends who are still in East Germany.

I went back to visit Brandenburg and I was able to see my grandfather one more time before he passed away.

And during that time I also took a day trip to Berlin

because my dream will come true.

I was going to walk through that Brandenburg gate.

As we were walking to the gate, I asked my father, I said, please take a picture of me leaning against the pillar.

It meant the world to me.

Because now you could move again freely through the gate.

It's still a symbol of freedom to this day for myself.

Behind the gate, the Brandenburg Gate, is a park and on that park are names of people who escaped and didn't make it, that died in the process.

There is also a plaque that states to all those who successfully escaped the East German regime.

They in part contributed to the liberation of the East German people.

Today, I live on the west coast of the United States, and I will be forever grateful for my parents who had the courage and the unwavering strength to risk their lives and mine for that opportunity.

Thank you.

Zilke Need was born four years after the Berlin Wall was built.

She said, returning to East Germany and meeting old friends who had grown up behind the wall felt strange because she had lived a very different life than they had.

And the contrast between her life in the U.S.

and life in East Germany was stark.

We met Zilke after she called the Moth Pitch Line and told us about her experience fleeing authoritarian rule in East Germany.

If you have a story, and granted, it might not be about escaping oppression, or it may, we encourage you to do the same.

You can visit our website, themoth.org, and record your pitch directly on our site.

Or you can call 877-799-MOTH.

That's 877-799-6684.

We listen to every pitch, and we'd love to hear from you.

Coming up, Love, Memories, and Therapeutic Lies when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

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This is the Moth Radio Hour.

I'm Meg Bowles, and our final story in this episode comes from Bryn Durgan.

She told it at the Center Stage Theater in Atlanta, where we partnered with Georgia Public Broadcasting.

Here's Bryn Durgan live at the mall.

I had just left my life in New York City to become my dad's full-time caregiver and everybody kept calling this a sacrifice.

I hate that word.

It makes me think of dead goats or baby lambs also dead because something's got to die in order for it to be a sacrifice.

My dad was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's, and he was young, and I was young.

I was still a teenager when the brain scan started.

Now, years later and in my 20s, I had moved home because the signs weren't so subtle.

That first morning back, I heard the shower running and I

See the bathroom door is just wide open.

I go to check and I see my dad and he's standing in front of the sink, still in his pajamas, just staring at his reflection in the mirror, sort of touching his face all over.

And I go past him to turn the water off and it's ice cold, so I know he's been standing there for some time.

And he looks at me while still looking in the mirror and points to his reflection and says, who is that?

And I tell him, that's you.

But it's the first I'd spoken that morning, so my voice has this unintentional flatness to it that makes it sound almost sharp.

And so I say it again, except this time like I'm introducing him to someone that I know he'll love, someone I'm excited for him to meet.

Like, that's you, you.

But he looks disappointed and scared.

The next day, our medical IDs arrived in the mail, and there are these silver chains that look more like friendship bracelets.

Except instead of best and friends, his was engraved dementia and mine, caregiver.

So I put mine on first, and then I present him with his like it's a present.

And I make something up about how these bracelets mean that we belong together.

And he looks at me like I've lost my mind.

And I think maybe he's on to me.

And then he says, no, this bracelet is from my time in world war ii

and then he goes on he even names the division the 101st airborne and

and he he just goes on and on and he says that these guys they're trying to track him down but don't worry they're good guys they're just trying to bring him home and he says something about this having to do with his three brothers my dad's an only child by the way

and as he's telling the story, it's starting to sound pretty familiar.

Like, I can almost see it.

And he is summarizing the plot of saving Private Ryan,

which I guess makes him Matt Damon.

And then a week later, he announces that he is Canadian.

This man who fought for our stars and stripes on the beaches of Normandy is Canadian.

And then my dad, who is in his 60s at this point, is telling people at gas stations, in the doctor's office, in the grocery store, anybody who will listen, that he is 96 years old.

And they are earnestly responding like, wow, look at you.

Good for you.

And like they want to know his secret.

And I should say that there's usually at least a sliver of truth in what he's saying.

You know, I'm sure that living with a fatal neurological disease makes you feel a lot older than you really are.

And we were living right on the U.S.-Canadian border.

You could see the bridge.

And, you know, his dad was a 100% disabled military veteran.

And he was the only child.

So if it weren't for that, he would have been shipped off to Vietnam.

And I guess that has a a whiff of saving Private Ryan to it, at least.

And so I never correct him.

And I get really good at going along with whatever he says no matter how bizarre or unreal it is

and

in the dementia community we don't call this lying we call it therapeutic fibbing

And it's world building, really, because it's a lot easier for me to step into his world than it is for him to understand mine.

And that's the last thing that I wanted.

I did not want him to know the reality of the situation.

Of course, he knew that he had Alzheimer's, but he didn't know that I was his caregiver.

When I was little, I was terrified that I would just disappear in the middle of the night.

And this made bedtime a total nightmare.

So my dad,

the drama teacher that he was, he turned bedtime into a whole production.

And he would make up a poem, a new one, every single night and theatrically recite it to me at my bedside.

And on nights that I'd spend away, he would write this poem in advance on a little blue index card and slip it into my bag for me to read before falling asleep elsewhere.

And now that he was afraid of a different kind of disappearing,

I put all of my energy into making him feel as alive and present as possible.

So that fall, I got us seats on an antique railway that took us through the Adirondack Mountains, and

I took him to a sugar shack that winter, and we watched the sap drip from the maple trees and get boiled into syrup and ate them on stacks of blueberry pancakes.

And in the spring, I took him strawberry picking and I made a pie using his mom's recipe, my grandma's recipe, and we ate it on paper plates in the park.

And then one day, I take him to this beach on Lake Ontario and it's where he used to take me growing up as a kid.

And it's just before sunset and he's looking up at the sky and then over at me and then back up at the sky and then back over at me

and he looks at me like, oh I see what you did.

Like he thinks that I am making the sky turn colors.

Like the setting sun is a present that I'm giving him.

And he starts to seem nervous and he starts fidgeting in his pocket, like maybe he's looking for something that he can give to me.

And then he's looking at me and he's really looking at me and he looks so happy.

And he says,

will you

marry me?

I know.

And I'm shocked.

And I get that feeling that you get when someone sort of jumps out and scares you, where my whole body just tingles and it feels sort of numb.

And without even thinking, I tell him, I'm your daughter.

And I see his happiness, this happiness that is him imagining a future turn to confusion because he doesn't get labels anymore.

He doesn't know what daughter means at this point.

And now I know that my dad didn't actually want to marry me.

He just wanted to be together forever.

And what father doesn't want that with their daughter, right?

Might they express that a bit differently?

Probably.

But I know that he's proposing to me for the same reasons that I probably said that I wanted to marry him when I was a kid, because of that sense of belonging and security and safety.

And it's a healthy development, really.

My therapist said so.

Of course he's proposing.

And

also, I don't know what I had expected because I had taken him on a year's worth of what now, in the soft light of the setting sun, looks like dates from The Bachelor.

I had even gotten a helicopter involved at one point.

I had gifted him a helicopter ride for Father's Day that year.

And two weeks before that, before this proposal, I had taken him on a glass-bottomed boat to an island that is in the shape of a heart.

So, duh, of course.

But responding to him like I did felt corrective and cruel, and it's all I could think about on the drive home.

But it's not like I could turn around and say to him, hey, you know what you asked me back there on the beach?

On On second thought, I changed my mind.

The answer is yes.

Because he wouldn't remember.

So a few weeks later, we are apple picking when, with a mouth full of Granny Smith, my dad turns to me and again asks me to marry him.

And again,

I tell him, I'm your daughter.

And that was my chance.

That was my chance to just therapeutically fib, to just say yes.

But I didn't.

And

over the next year, my dad continued to propose to me over and over and over again.

And he proposed so many times that it's all now just this fog that blends in with this guilt and shame that I feel over not having said yes.

And

eventually, my dad stopped being able to ask me to marry him.

And he stopped being able to say much of anything at all.

And then he died.

And standing on the stage of my high school theater, where my dad taught for 42 years, I started his eulogy by saying, I'm Joe Durgan's daughter.

And that's the thing.

I couldn't have said yes.

I needed to remind myself, not him, that I'm his daughter, his child.

Something that I had stopped feeling like when I had started installing child safety locks and replacing his shoelaces with those elastic coils that don't need tying and putting his drawings up on the refrigerator.

I think on some subconscious level I knew that once he was gone, being his daughter is what would be left.

It's what I would still be able to be.

It's what I'm still able to be to him now.

So what

I guess I was really saying all those times that I told him, I'm your daughter, is I'm your daughter, so you'll always be with me.

And that's true.

I see him, I see his face and my own every time I look in the mirror because I'm his daughter.

Thank you.

Bryn Durgan is a writer, humorist, and frequent contributor to The New Yorker.

She's also the director of programming at Bookstore One in Sarasota, Florida, where she leads the popular Band Book Club.

Bryn was her father's full-time caregiver for three years, and she says the experience shaped her in significant ways that are hard to articulate.

It forced her to slow down, and that slowing slowing down allowed her to see the smallest parts of life like the colors of a sunset.

She said during that time taking care of her dad, it was as if every one of her senses was heightened.

She told me that often people think a person with Alzheimer's forgets you.

People were always saying that her father was mistaking her for his wife or he was getting her wrong, but she said it never felt like he was forgetting her.

In fact, she said spending that time with him, she felt like she knew him better than she ever had before.

She says she absolutely believes that you can have lasting, meaningful relationships with people living with dementia.

She still wears the medical alert ID/slash caretaker slash friendship bracelet, and in fact, she has never taken it off since that first day with her dad.

That's it for this episode.

We hope you'll join us again next time.

This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Meg Bowles, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show.

Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch.

The rest of the Moss leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Sarah Austin-Janes, Jennifer Hickson, Kate Tellers, Marina Cluche, Leigh Ann Gulley, Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Urenia.

Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Rhys-Dennis.

Moss's stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.

Our theme music is by the drift.

Other music in this hour from Trombone Attraction, Illy Mel and Sean Williams, Deluxe, and Phil Cook.

We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

For more about our podcast, for information on Pitching Us Your Own Story, and to learn more about the Moth, go to our website, themoth.org.

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