For a while, Frank managed on his own.
Then he started forgetting things.
Keys.
Meals.
Appointments.
Eventually, the problems became more serious.
One night he called Owen at three in the morning asking why his wife hadn’t returned from the store.
Another time he left the stove on.
Then he got lost driving to a grocery store he had visited for thirty years.
A stranger found him sitting in a gas-station parking lot, confused and terrified.
The diagnosis was dementia.
It progressed quickly.
Lisa lived across the country and said she couldn’t take him.
She had children.
A demanding job.
A long list of reasons.
So Frank moved in with us.
Our office became his bedroom.
We installed alarms on the doors.
We locked away certain kitchen items.
We hid the car keys.
Some days he was almost the Frank Owen remembered.
He watched old westerns and complained that television had gone downhill.
Other days he wandered through the house asking where his wife was.
Sometimes fear turned into anger.
Once he knocked a coffee mug against the wall during a confused moment.
And every time his voice rose, Owen changed.
His whole body became still.
His thumb rubbed against his finger.
“Dad,” he would say quietly.
“You’re safe. It’s okay.”
He spoke to Frank as though he were trying to calm both the man standing in front of him and the frightened child Owen himself had once been.
By September, Owen and I hadn’t gone anywhere alone together in seven months.
Not dinner.
Not shopping.
Not even a short walk.
We tried.
In February, Lisa promised to visit so we could go to an Italian restaurant.
She canceled the day before.
In April, our neighbor offered to stay with Frank while we attended a concert.
That afternoon, Frank became frightened because he didn’t recognize her.
We stayed home.
In June, we hired a caregiver so we could spend an afternoon at the beach.
We barely reached the parking lot before the caregiver called.
Frank had locked himself in the bathroom and refused to come out.
