The Beginning

My mother had Alzheimer’s. It was a long, hard road to travel.

My father visited her every day, twice a day, while she was in a nursing home. He seemed to be functioning well, although I would occasionally hear from concerned people.

  • “Your father said some things that really didn’t make sense at all. He’s such a sharp guy. How do you think he’s doing?”
  • “I stopped by the house yesterday. I hope it’s okay that I let myself in. Something was burning on the stove and your father was asleep in his chair. Just thought you should know.”
  • “Your father’s driving… um… you know, you can ask him prime care provider to revoke his license?”

After Mom died, I saw it. All of it. He was not functioning well. I couldn’t say if the problem was grief, or his own dementia, or both. I think it was both. I think he fought the fog of dementia for longer than I can imagine so that he could be there for my mom.

Now it’s his turn.

I’m doing my best to take care of him, but I won’t lie — this is hard.


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