He smiled more when he remembered more than he forgot. It was like a light switch that toyed with him, going on, going off, and that space in between when his mind rested, not by choice.
It was hard work recalling his life, and even harder to keep the memories, as those pesky little memory crashers were always ready to strike again.
Doctors said his advanced stage of memory loss was common, and although there were some medications that may help to slow it down, he chose to let things happen as they would.
I watched him slow to answer questions, but I believed it was because he didn't want to miss anything, and if it took a bit longer, so be it. I often found him outside in the yard, looking left to right and back again, taking baby steps towards the road, but stopping short. He wasnt trying to hurt himself, he just wanted to remember the road, that simple.
Over time, he got worse, but we sat every day, sometimes in silence, letting facial expressions speak for themselves, which eventually became a sort of game between us. A touch to his mouth meant he was hungry. A tug on his ear meant turn up the programs he liked.
At bedtime, I'd hold his hand in mine, the wrinkles like a roadmap of his life, and the realization that the body wears out as the mind does, each fighting to be the last survivor.
At the end, we were holding hands as he slowly went to sleep, hopefully remembering all the memories he fought so hard to remember. He blinked twice, which meant he loved me, and tears fell from both our eyes as his journey was complete.
Doctors said his advanced stage of memory loss was common, and although there were some medications that may help to slow it down, he chose to let things happen as they would.
I watched him slow to answer questions, but I believed it was because he didn't want to miss anything, and if it took a bit longer, so be it. I often found him outside in the yard, looking left to right and back again, taking baby steps towards the road, but stopping short. He wasnt trying to hurt himself, he just wanted to remember the road, that simple.
Over time, he got worse, but we sat every day, sometimes in silence, letting facial expressions speak for themselves, which eventually became a sort of game between us. A touch to his mouth meant he was hungry. A tug on his ear meant turn up the programs he liked.
At bedtime, I'd hold his hand in mine, the wrinkles like a roadmap of his life, and the realization that the body wears out as the mind does, each fighting to be the last survivor.
At the end, we were holding hands as he slowly went to sleep, hopefully remembering all the memories he fought so hard to remember. He blinked twice, which meant he loved me, and tears fell from both our eyes as his journey was complete.
Mike 2026
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