When my father’s dementia turned dangerous, I stopped sleeping. It wasn’t just the forgetfulness anymore. It was the stove left on at three in the morning. The front door standing wide open in winter. The night I found him halfway down the block in his slippers, confused and trembling, asking me where his own house was. I was scared—terrified, actually. I called my brother first. “Mark, I can’t keep doing this alone,” I said. “He’s wandering at night. He doesn’t recognize the house sometimes.” “You’re overreacting,” he replied. “He’s just getting older.” Then I called my sister, Angela. For illustrative...
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