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.
