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For me, his late-in-the-day reprieve ensured that the death of my dad was a hero’s death. My dad will always be in our hearts, even though we can no longer hug him or make him laugh.That is the real immortality that we too often misguidedly seek in other places. aturday has shimmered into Sunday at the Clubhouse.Dad had never been one to give way to his feelings or express much emotion.He always seemed to be guided by a fear that others would judge him as somehow wanting, less than others.I noticed it the first time I visited after my dad had fallen ill.I remember when he greeted me at the top of the stairs, he proceeded to give me a hug. Hugging my dad of old was always like hugging a rock – no response. There were other moments when his transformation was unmistakable.Like other types of dementia, it impeded his ability to reason and make judgments, resulted in memory loss, and magnified his confusion. ” He would carry around his old briefcase, always placing it next to his recliner where he sat and slept throughout the day, a quiet yet determined assertion of who he was.

You didn’t actually exist.” My family is very mixed and Dad was brown in complexion.We were in the dining room one day and I was taking a few photographs of something through the window. Here was someone who had Suddenly, my father was openly willing to giving me hugs, and when he would meet new people, he’d greet them with a smile instead of avoiding eye contact altogether.As Dad was sitting down to eat something my mom had baked, he casually asked, “Are you going to take pictures? But because of the dementia, he sometimes forgot who we were. I remember my mom telling me about a conversation she had with Dad.A short time after I returned home in January, my mom rang to let me know my dad had a stroke.As the weeks progressed, we learned that his stroke had resulted in something known as vascular fdementia.

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