It started small. Little lapses in short term memory. And about two years later, I'm sitting in the nursing home with dad watching him use a fork to push all the food off his plate because it's a bad day and he can't remember how to eat. He'll get it, eventually, but with a little help.
This man - the big, strong 6' 4" Superman who could fix anything - now alla me for the sixth time in an hour where my kids are. And I find myself happy, because tonight, he remembers his grandkids. Sometimes he gets confused and he doesn't realize it's me until halfway through our visit when he says, "Allie, when did you get here?"
I hate that dementia has done this to him. I hate that he forgets how to do things he's done his whole life. I hate that it took him a while at his neuro appointment to comprehend how to fold a piece of paper in half. And I hate that he is now dependent on others and has lost not only pieces of his freedom, but also parts of his dignity.
Tonight is one of those nights when I'm searching for some inspiration.