MANILA, Philippines - ?Dad?s starting to forget things,? my mother told me when she came to visit with my sister last year. ?He?ll ask me something, and then 10 minutes later, he?ll ask exactly the same question again. It can get really repetitive.?

Senility was not something I ever thought would afflict my dad. At least not at 75. In fact, the only other close family member who suffered from dementia was my maternal grandmother. In her dotage she would forget our names but recall with impressive clarity episodes from her youth, in the days before marriage and World War II.

Bedridden, she would keep her money and jewelry hidden under her mattress and then accuse the nurse of stealing from her.

She never forgot, however, that she was a devout Catholic, and even erected a makeshift altar on top of the television set in her bedroom in my parents? house. Vying for altar space with the Virgin Mary, the Infant Jesus and a vial of holy water from Lourdes was a plastic statue of Mickey Mouse.

My grandmother was not the most cheerful person. She spent her life lamenting how misfortune seemed to favor her. When dementia set in, we all surmised that it was the cumulative consequence of old age, bitterness, physical inactivity and lack of mental stimulation.

None of those conditions exist for my father. He played basketball and swam regularly for exercise well into his seventies. He traveled overseas often. He kept his mind active and his instincts alert. He laughed. Bile has never been part of his character, and rarely has he raised his voice in anger, much less hurled expletives. Whereas my mother is known to be fierce and fiery, my father is a calm and imperturbable presence. At family dinners, he prefers to observe and ruminate, and then he throws in the jokey one-liners that have us all simultaneously chuckling and cringing. ?You?re so corny, Dad!? we all exclaim.

The last time I saw him, the jokes were still there, but the incessant questions were alarming. I hadn?t seen my father in two and a half years. My children, aged 7 and 11, have not been able to see their grandfather in three years. Not through lack of desire, but through force of circumstance.

For the last four years, I have been stuck in South Africa, a country that is not my home and never will be. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to remain here while protracted and acrimonious divorce proceedings are going on. Early on in the proceedings, my estranged husband managed to get a court order preventing me from leaving South Africa with my children until the divorce is finalized. Not even for a holiday. More than two years later, there is still no resolution forthcoming, much less a trial date.

True to form, Dad has never uttered a single word against the ex. ?I haven?t heard all sides of the story,? he said to me once over the phone, ?just yours. And I have had no communication with my son-in-law, so I can?t pass judgement.?

?But surely you agree that it?s wrong to drag things out and delay the proceedings!? I protested.

?I don?t think it?s good for my granddaughters to have to go through this,? he said after a thoughtful silence. ?I am very concerned about them. I think they should come home.?

If he was disappointed to see only me when I came home for a short visit last August without my children in tow, he didn?t show it. He asked about them all the time?and though the rest of my family had become impatient with the repetitive questions, I for one welcomed them.

Sometimes he asked every few minutes how old my girls were; at other times, he seemed to recall everything my older daughter had said to him on Skype two weeks before. But he hadn?t forgotten their distinct personalities?Samantha was the low-wattage soft light with the warm, long-lasting glow while Jessica was high-voltage, incandescent, fluorescent and disco-ball strobe-strength all at once.

But the questions he seemed to ask most often were these: ?How are the girls taking the strain? Are they managing to cope? How is it affecting them? When is it all going to end??

Every time he would ask these questions, I could feel the tears brimming in my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I would try and answer as honestly as I could. ?Yes, they?re coping. No, it isn?t easy. They don?t like being in limbo, they also just want to know. I really don?t know. Soon, I pray.?

Wrenching as these questions were, they gave me hope. To me he was still Dad, the father who somehow always ?got? me, even without having to say much. So maybe he was more forgetful these days. Maybe he said the same things over and over again without realizing it. Maybe he seemed thinner than usual. But his face was still smooth and remarkably unlined, and his temperament as calm and gentle as always.

But then I live six time zones and thousands of miles away. I don?t experience the agonizing day-to-day anxiety the rest of my family does when Dad doesn?t show up for dinner at my brother?s home as planned, and no one can find him because he forgot to charge his cell phone. I don?t feel their frustration when they remind him he has to do something and he doesn?t remember. I don?t sense their deep dismay when he suddenly looks lost and befuddled in conversation.

But I share their fear that one day he won?t recognize any of us. That he?ll go back deep into his childhood and relive incoherent memories, forgetting that he married an exceptional woman and raised a loving family of four children, now expanded to include two daughters-in-law and seven grandchildren. That he?ll be too feeble in mind and body to attend all the grandchildren?s baseball games, birthday parties and school plays like he used to. That he won?t ever crack a corny joke again.

A few weeks ago, my brothers took Dad to the dentist. He had complained that his teeth had been bothering him for some time. His molars, the dentist said, had sunk; the bones supporting them had degenerated. Again, the stealthy but inexorable march of old age. Two teeth had to be extracted.

Next was the visit to the geriatrician. Short-term memory loss was diagnosed, completely understandable and expected with the onset of old age. It could lead to full-blown dementia, but for now it was not severe. His elevated blood pressure complicated matters, though. The geriatrician arranged for Dad to have an MRI, to rule out the possibility of an undetected stroke. So far so good.

In the meantime, Dad has to be chauffeured all the time. Long-haul air travel on his own, something he enjoyed doing, is also out of the question. His blood pressure has to be monitored twice a day. Soon he?ll have to close down the business he built. Eventually, he?ll require full-time care by a trained nurse.

I hope my daughters and I will finally be back home for good way before then.

On the eve of my departure last August, we all sat down to dinner?parents, children, in-laws and grandchildren. Over a familiar home-cooked meal of grilled chicken and prawns, steamed rice, and red egg and tomato salad washed down with wine, I found it both reassuring and surprising that even after my two-and-a-half-year absence, we had all slipped back seamlessly into our old family dynamic. The same opinionated voices mouthing the usual political tirades, the same fed-up siblings eager to change the subject, the same competitive animals comparing weights, skills and grades, and Dad sitting quietly at the head of the table, like a wizened old Solomon, observing, ruminating.

Every so often, he would ask me a question that made me wonder whether he even remembered the different countries I?d lived in since I got married, or where my children were born. My brothers and sisters-in-law would exchange knowing looks, my mom would sigh with impatience, and my sister would roll her eyes. The younger kids would scrunch their faces in confusion. And because I don?t see my dad very often, I happily indulged him.

After dinner I brought out my laptop to show the most recent photos of my daughters. Dad astonished me; he was focused and sharp in his recall. ?Look how they?ve grown. That?s Samantha on the left,? he pointed, ?and Jessica on the right. That was the birthday party they were telling me about on the phone.? And he was absolutely spot on.

The next day, all throughout lunch and on the way to the airport, Dad asked me every few minutes what time my flight was, how long the trip would be, and whether there was a stopover in between. As always, he asked after his granddaughters. I had to clench my jaw to keep from sobbing. When I said goodbye I was afraid to cling to him too desperately. I didn?t want him to know that I was crying as much for him, the dad who couldn?t always remember, as for myself and the two grandchildren he has only seen via webcam but hasn?t held or kissed since July 2004.

Although I was excited to see my kids, I trudged through the arrivals terminal in Johannesburg with all the bounce of a prisoner on death row. Back in my apartment, I dejectedly sorted out my luggage and checked my e-mail.

Suddenly my phone beeped, and a text message came though. It was from my sister-in-law. ?Hi, Bambina,? it read, ?we had dinner at mom?s last night. Your dad couldn?t talk about anything else but you. Looks like you?ve been foremost on his mind. Thought you might want to know.?

I asked her what he?d said, and she replied, ?He is worried about you?that you?re alone and that the strain might break you. Said that even early on in the car, he could feel your emotions build up. Also worried about the kids.?

I understood in that moment that although my dad was suffering from short-term memory loss, there was absolutely nothing of true significance that he ever forgot.

His mind may be going, but I know his heart will never leave him.

My dad was recently diagnosed with non-Hodgkin?s lymphoma after a malignant tumor was removed from his tonsils. We are all praying he will pull through.