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I biked to the mailbox, located a mile away from my new house, to collect the mail. It had been a tough week. My husband broke his foot one week earlier. I was still catching up.

I opened the crammed-pack full mailbox and pulled the conglomeration of bills, notices, and ads out. A pale-blue greeting card-shaped envelope fell to the ground. I picked it up curious. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, which was addressed to my first and last name.

That’s odd.

I’ve been going by my middle name for forty years. The only people who still call me by my first name are my mom and dad and few other relatives, possibly some folks from middle or high school.

Hmmm.

The mystery sender had addressed it to my recent (now old) address and spelled the street name incorrectly. Strange. Everyone close to me knew I had moved. It had a yellow forwarding sticker from the post office. There was no return address. I knew it was not from my mom or sister-in-law.

I held that pale blue envelope gingerly wondering who had sent me a card.

I sat inside the car and opened it up carefully, pulling out a handmade card with a photo on the front and the words “Happy Valentine’s Day” with some green scrollwork.

For a moment I did not recognize the old man in the photo.

Then with a start, I suddenly realized I was looking at my own father. His eyes stared vacantly, his mouth downturned, expression unreadable. His face looked old — so old. He was wearing a white t-shirt and red cardigan. There were red paper cut-out hearts in the background. It was not a great photo of him…but it was unmistakably him.

My heart caught. My father had sent me a valentine?

I opened it up and inside was the typed message:

“This is a subliminal Valentine’s Day card. Put it under your pillow and you’ll dream about me all night long.”

On the back, it said “Made especially for you by Richard.”

My father, Richard, has been in a memory care facility for the last year. He has Alzheimer’s. I last saw him on December 26, 2019. At the time he had been under my mother’s care.

Mom, at 82, was an amazing caregiver to my dad. She was relentless about following an anti-Alzheimer’s protocol, tracking endless supplements, employing a strict diet (no sugar, no grains, no nightshades) making sure he went for daily walks, helping him groom himself, picking out nice clothes, keeping track of his hearing aids. But, the caregiving was taking its toll. He was often combative and no longer had perfect control over himself — peeing in odd places, like the oven.

She was getting exhausted and sick herself. She had a routine that helped them get through the day, smoothies with supplements in the morning, going for drives, and out for coffee in the afternoon. In January 2020, She had signed him up for adult daycare, which he enjoyed and which offered her a reprieve. Occasionally she had in-home care come.

Truth is, she really didn’t want to, maybe couldn’t, face the fact that he was declining. Fast. But, she worried about what would happen to him if something happened to her. I lived in another state and was unable to offer day-to-day assistance, though I could visit from time to time, such as at Christmas. She had visited a memory care place just after Christmas that she really liked but wasn’t “anywhere near ready,” to put him in. She let an opening go by unclaimed but remained on the waitlist for a future date.

Then Covid hit.

Mom lost all her support. The adult daycare closed. The live-in help no longer an option. The coffee shops closed. Flying was frowned upon. And dad was only getting worse.

The bottom dropped out. In mid-March, the memory care place called and said they had an opening, but she would have to decide within the next few days. Mom knew that a spot in a place she had seen and liked was the best option available to her and him. But it was pure anguish. The care facility had said that because of Covid, once she dropped him off (at the door) there would be no visitation…

I inwardly gasped, tears instantly springing forth.

My dad…had I seen him for the last time and not known it?

That was almost a year ago now.  My heart aches for my mom and dad. Dad has gotten much worse over this year. Mom had staved off some of the effects of Alzheimer’s with her strict protocol, it turns out.

In the memory care facility, they couldn’t employ such rigorous protocols and focused (rightly) on his immediate comfort. So he was allowed to eat whatever he wanted, to walk or not walk as he was inclined to do. I’m sure he liked that. But, we talked to his caregivers on the phone and knew, creature comforts notwithstanding, he was having a hard time. Oh, how that hurt to hear.

I tried to write him letters, though I know he did not understand. I hoped he felt my love. Those became less frequent. I focused on mom more. Mom had decided to walk her way through the grief and had embarked on an ambition to walk 500 miles over 5 or 6 months. I talked to her every day.

At night, I dreamt of dad, sometimes. Those were special nights. He beamed at me in those dreams in his own special way. But I wondered if I would ever see him for real again.

Then, a couple days ago, that letter came in its pale-blue envelope with unrecognizable handwriting.

And, although I knew he didn’t personally make it, I felt my dad’s love in it. He would have if he could have.

I dropped to my knees then, as it struck me that someone knew this love existed, someone knew a daughter felt anguish at missing her father. In my mind’s eye, I saw someone at his memory care facility taking the photo, preparing the card and sitting at a table, and painstakingly writing out that hand-written envelope addressed to me–a subliminal belated valentine from my dad.

I was awash with the love and compassion that person showed in sending that card to me–a daughter who had not seen her dad in over a year, who lived in another state, still unable to travel. A daughter who knew her dad would not recognize her any longer even if she did see him.

This, I thought.

This is what love and compassion look like in action.

That mind’s eye view of someone writing out that pale-blue envelope meant so much to me. Someone knew this: my dad loved me, and I loved him.

This is what I, too, aspire to share with the world: Love and compassion in action.