Tonight at the dinner table, as my Dad looked at a picture of my three brothers, he asked, “Scott, Bruce and Dean, they were siblings, right?”
I answered smoothly, “Yes, and they still are,” but my heart skipped a few beats.
That kind of confusion has been accelerating. Awakening earlier than usual yesterday morning, Dad asked me, “Who put me here? Where am I?” And this afternoon he asked, “Whose house is this?” He’s spent hundreds of nights in this house since we moved in six years ago.
He does not seem to be afraid during these periods of disorientation – he sees and recognizes me – but they shock me.
I’ve talked about the physical challenge of Dad’s decline, but I think his cognitive changes are the scariest. I don’t really understand them, and I don’t know what the future holds.
It’s one more thing that I have to find a way to be at peace with, so that Dad can be at peace.
The Henry Chronicles 