My father has dementia.
I know that. And I know that it is a progressive condition.
All of that knowledge did me no good when I saw him earlier this trip. And saw him struggling (and failing) with my name. And forgetting where we were or what he liked to eat. I still felt like the air had been knocked out of me.
Since that visit, I have been filling my sketchbook with thumbnails about Dad and my feelings about his dementia.