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My husband and I decided we would drive to Michigan with his 88-year old father.  There were family members he wanted to reconnect with and old haunts he wanted to revisit, probably for the last time. We knew that he could not tolerate flying and had always loved to travel by car.  He was really looking forward to the trip and talked about it often as the time drew near.

My father-in-law, Al, has mild dementia.  He moved in with us 10 months ago, and we thought we were prepared for the challenges this trip would present to both him and us.  He is pretty independent at home and takes care of himself during the day.

We all packed a week’s worth of clothing.  I decided to take some emergency supplies – men’s incontinence guards and a washable bed pad – in the event the bathrooms were too far apart.

The first three hours were uneventful.  All of a sudden, Al started to groan in pain and lost control of his bladder.  Fortunately, we were just coming to a rest area, where he “dashed” out of the car.  Unfortunately, we were too late and he had to change his pants.

That was just the start for him.  He could not last longer than 50 minutes before he was overcome with intense pain and incontinence.  We stopped at every 50 minutes or less, but still he went through all of his pants and the guards were not sufficient protection.  Unfortunately, he had to ride the last couple of hours in wet pants sitting on the bed pad.  That was a humiliating day for him.

We washed all of his clothes that night and started the next morning all fresh and clean.

We spent the next days visiting his friends and family, people he had been excited to see. They were all either living at home with home health aides or in nursing homes.  During the visits, Al was not his usual talkative self.  He would sit quietly in a corner or by the door and appeared depressed.  One evening he appeared frightened and said that he wanted to see them all at first, but could only stand about 15 minutes, then wanted “to push them away.”  He “did not expect that they would all be so old.”

Our drive back was not as difficult for Al.  He was determined not to repeat his previous experience and would argue with us when we practically forced him to use the bathrooms.  He was very quiet and appeared depressed.  All in all we were relieved to get back home!

I realized that I had underestimated Al’s limitations.  He appears to function relatively well in his familiar surroundings and within his daily routine.  But looking back on the trip, at times he was frightened and confused and did not know how to respond to his friends and family because they were not as he remembered them.

Since returning, he has talked about how difficult the trip was and rarely mentions who he visited.  If I knew Al would hve had such a difficult time, would I have taken him to Michigan?  I honestly do not know.

There are times when we will use this blog to share a personal story, one we hope will resonate in a universal way even as the details are singular and specific. By sharing experiences, we learn we are not alone. We learn there is healing and hope along the way.

In her own words, here is such a story —  from Ellen Sue Moses, a pharmacist and member of the Health Champion team . . .

My father has Alzheimer’s. In truth, his dementia is probably a mixture of vascular dementia and Alzheimer’s disease. But that doesn’t matter to him. Or to me. Naming his dementia doesn’t change its reality.

I’ve heard that the definition of Alzheimer’s is not when you lose your keys; it’s when you forget what your keys are for. According to the Alzheimer’s Association, as many as 5.3 Americans are living with the disease. It’s the sixth leading cause of death in the U.S.

About my dad: it’s hard to know when it started. By the time my mother died, either his disease had progressed significantly or my siblings and I were noticing it more. Ordinary activities were confusing and complicated. He couldn’t remember how to navigate the streets he had driven his whole life. He started getting frightened and having terrifying nightmares, this rock of a man who never seemed to have fear.

Then one day I noticed blank checks stuffed into his pockets; he couldn’t answer the simplest of questions without overwhelming frustration. Even with 24/7 care, he could no longer live in his apartment. To my joy, we moved Dad closer to me, into a wonderful facility dedicated to memory-impaired adults.

As we go through life, our feeling of safety is based upon lessons learned from past experiences. Dad lives in a world with no memory of the past — of what worked for him and where danger lies. Remarkably, he has adapted to this life where every day, everything is new.

All of the things Dad accumulated as he traveled through life no longer hold any value. What matters most to him is spending time with people. Not long ago he told me that he didn’t know who I was but knew I belonged to him. Caring for Dad has changed my perception of life, aging and death. From him, I am learning to live in the present; I am learning every day what matters most.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? We invite you to post your comments or send us a longer story by private e-mail. And if you need help, we’re here to guide your journey through the health care system.