Part 4: Holding On and Letting Go
Updated: Oct 3
Welcome to Part 4—the final installment—of my series on caring for aging parents. If you missed the beginning, you can catch up on Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.
While my dad was temporarily staying at my house, I took the lead on searching for his next—and final—home. Before navigating this journey, my only exposure to elder care was what I knew from my grandmother, who had lived in a nursing home. I quickly learned about the different levels of senior living—independent living, assisted living, and memory care—where meals, daily assistance, and specialized support are all integrated depending on a person's individual needs.
My dad and me in a Polaroid from our 1986 father-daughter dance, when I was 11 years old.
The most striking difference between assisted living and memory care is security. In memory care, no one—residents, guests, or staff—can come and go freely. Every door is secured, requiring a key fob, keycard, or someone to buzz you through. Touring these facilities with that reality in mind was an eye-opening process. Some places felt rigid and depressing, almost like a prison. Others felt transactional, as if they were delivering a polished sales pitch to get my business.
Eventually, I found a non-profit, Christian-based facility rooted in genuine compassion—and I knew right away it was a place where Dad could truly feel at home. Knowing that I would be visiting frequently, finding a location close to my house was essential. It was heartbreaking to accept that my dad could no longer have his freedom, but after everything that had happened, I knew that very freedom had become a severe safety hazard.
While Dad was staying at my house as I prepared for his move, an at-home interview was conducted as part of the admission process to ensure he would be a good fit for the facility.
Meanwhile, the daunting task of clearing out his condo to prepare it for sale—and handling administrative details like transferring the ownership of his car, which took several frustrating visits to the DMV— fell largely on my shoulders. Looking back at old text threads between my brother and me, I’m reminded of how much effort went into that process—daily status updates full of logistics that I had completely forgotten about because so much transpired afterward. My brother helped on weekends by hauling all the heavy boxes I had packed to the dumpster—by my guess, 50 to 80 boxes, all packed to the brim with books. But during the week while my kids were at school, I spent endless hours alone in the quiet condo sorting through decades of his life.
Packing up a parent's home is an emotional marathon. My dad was never one to discard anything, so I had to sort through decades of history:
Shelves filled with personal journals dating back to the 1970s.
Endless legal pads filled with handwritten notes and ideas for academic papers.
Printed drafts of his published scholarly articles.
Unsorted family photos alongside pictures from decades of international conferences and travel.
Meaningful keepsakes, including plaques, awards, Korean artwork and watches gifted to him over his long career.
It took weeks of labor to decide what to save, what to pass along, and what to donate. Bags of clothing were given to local non-profit organizations, and nearly two thousand books were discarded. Furniture that wouldn’t fit in his new home—mostly bookshelves—was sold through local online marketplaces. One of the most comforting moments during that process was finding a home for several of his cherished Korean art pieces by donating them in his name to the Korean Cultural Center, knowing they would continue to be appreciated.
"Autumn Fishing on the River Bank" (left) alongside Unsan's 1984 depiction of wild horses (right). 1979 custom calligraphy dedicated to Dr. Nam-Kil Kim celebrating his doctoral studies at USC. Traditional ink and wash landscape depicting mountain peaks and a pagoda, painted by Ranbo in 1978. Preserved silk hanging scrolls alongside vintage USC shipping tube.
A collection of traditional Korean artwork and hanging scrolls honoring my father, Dr. Michael Nam-Kil Kim.
Clearing out Dad’s home and belongings was, without a doubt, one of the most physically and emotionally taxing parts of this journey. Yet, my role didn’t end with the move or the sale of his condo—there often feels like no true finish line to a caregiver’s responsibilities. Beyond the physical labor lay an endless wave of hidden administrative burdens: spending countless hours on the phone, drafting emails, sending faxes, and navigating the red tape to establish Power of Attorney just to manage his affairs. Because my name wasn't on his accounts, everything took infinitely longer—from consolidating finances and settling delinquent bills to discovering and paying off unpaid property taxes from two years prior. The weight of it all hit in small, heartbreaking moments—like during one of our visits to the DMV, when he suddenly forgot how to sign his own name.
It took time for my dad to adjust to living in memory care—and to be honest, to this day, he hasn’t fully adjusted. He still talks about leaving, often remarking that it’s a great place to study, but complaining that they won’t let him leave or go outside to exercise whenever he wants. In the beginning, I visited him two to three times a week to help him settle in, and he would call me constantly—sometimes ten times a day.
As the time I spent caring for my dad increased, I had less time for my mom, and she began to feel neglected. But there is only one of me. I realized I couldn’t afford to carry guilt on top of everything else; I was—and am—doing the very best I can, and that is simply something she has to understand. So where do I go from here? Caregiving duties continue. Life moves forward. My kids are growing, I am getting older, and just seven months after my dad moved into memory care, my world shifted again when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. To protect them from worry while they were already facing so much, I chose not to tell my parents—and to this day, they have no idea I went through it. Having to navigate my own surgeries, daily treatment, and recovery in secret while managing my dad's care taught me in the hardest possible way that I had to save some of that care for myself, too.
Through it all, I’m reminded that I don't have to do this alone. God has always been with me and has been my strength. There are still times when I feel completely overwhelmed—caregiving and life are full of ebbs and flows, ups and downs—but God is my constant. He is faithful, He doesn't change, and He loves me. He knows me, and He is enough.
Caregiving often feels like living in reverse—watching a parent who once guided you gradually revert to needing child-like care, all while facing your own mortality and health. It is a road full of unexpected turns, hard choices, and profound grief for the ways life used to be. Yet, finding a community where Dad is safe, cared for, and treated with dignity has brought a deep sense of peace for this chapter. Thank you so much for following along through this four-part series. While this specific story comes to a close, my journey as a caregiver—and a survivor— continues, and I’ll keep sharing reflections, lessons, and real-life moments right here on the blog.
