The Cry for Help Without the Tears

My job if you can call it, was to help Mum with day-to-day care of Dad. I wasn't here to judge but in theory I was the sanest person in the house as Dad had dementia, Mum was going doolally, and I was somewhere in between. So, there I was a fifty-year-old man, recently separated from my wife with grown up children of my own, I seemed a natural choice to move back in with my parents thirty years after moving out. I knew nothing about the perils of dementia, but then dementia knew nothing about me.