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Dementia is a terrible disease. My dad had dementia, and I brought him to Louisville to live with me. He also had physical disabilities from years working blacktop, driving trucks, and not taking care of himself. He was sweet to me 99% of the time while I cared for him. But the dementia occasionally made him volatile, even violent. Once, he pushed me and I fell through a doorway, breaking my foot. Later that day, when he saw me in a cast on crutches, he had no memory of what happened. He worried about me, unsure if I had been in an accident or if someone had hurt me. I lied and told him I had tripped and fallen. If he knew he had hurt me, he would have been utterly heartbroken. I honestly think he would have tried to hurt himself. He never knew what happened. Eventually, I could no longer care for him at home—no one could. He was falling too much and refused to use his walker or wheelchair. He went to a nursing home. It wasn’t awful, and he even made a friend there. But every time I visited, he would cry and say everyone had forgotten him and no one had come to see how he was doing. He said he was lonely and didn’t want to be there anymore. Seeing my dad weep like a child was brutal. But he was wrong. He did have visitors, but he didn’t remember anyone coming. Dementia stole those memories from him. That’s what makes dementia so awful. He was loved, but he didn’t remember how much he was loved by so many of us. He passed away in November of 2024. This is me & my Dad.