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.